


Capes and Capers

by dracoqueen22



Category: Batman: The Animated Series, Justice League & Justice League Unlimited (Cartoons), Smallville
Genre: Angst, Drama, Drunken Revelry, Ficlet Collection, First Meetings, First Times, Humor, Multi, Threesome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-27
Updated: 2015-07-27
Packaged: 2018-01-02 18:50:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 41
Words: 21,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1060303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dracoqueen22/pseuds/dracoqueen22
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of ficlets with a little bit of everything to whet nearly every appetite. Who is Diana flirting with? Who spiked the egg nog? Just how good is Alfred's advice? Answer to these questions and more inside.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I Thought That Was Mine

**Author's Note:**

> So I was trying to edit this and accidentally deleted the whole fragging thing. Thus, this is a re-post. My apologies to anyone who bookmarked the original posting.

The Boy Scout is too big, too hot standing right next to him and Clark damn well knows it. Bruce clenches his teeth, and forces himself to pay attention. There's a reason they were summoned out of bed at four in the morning, and it isn't so Clark can breathe down his neck, smugness radiating from his pores.   
  
He leans even closer, knowing good and well that Bruce is putting distance between them on purpose. “You're wearing my underwear,” he comments in a low voice that considering the other occupants in the room, everyone heard except maybe Wally, but then, Wally has an ear for rumor.   
  
Bruce bites back a sigh and grits out, “I thought they were _mine_ ,” he tells the big blue idiot under his breath.   
  
That's the downfall of wearing nearly the same size as your lover in damn near everything. Superman might have an inch or two on him when it comes to shoulder width, but other than that, they might as well have been two peas in a pod. And at four in the morning, with a mad dash to find all the pieces of their respective uniforms and put them on as quickly as possible, on occasion there are... mix ups.   
  
Bruce doesn't have Clark's lovely night vision but that one time with the capes is still no excuse. They looked ridiculous and Clark had been too amused to be of any help. Idiot.   
  
So yes, this morning, the call from the Justice League had gone out, and Clark with his super hearing was the first to notice it as always. They'd had to untangle themselves from the bed and each other, and bemoan the mad removal of uniforms they'd undergone the night before as Kevlar mixed with reinforced red and four boots had managed to scatter to the four cardinal directions.   
  
Clark's breath washes warm over his ear, even warmer than how close he is standing, practically pressed against Bruce from behind. He can feel him even through the Kevlar. “It's like you're wearing _me_ ,” Clark says, and he sounds far too gleeful, far too possessive, far too much like _Clark_ when he should be Superman right now. And his hand, which he probably thinks is disguised from everyone else but they _know_ Superman by now, drags down Bruce's back. Of course he feels it through the cape and the Kevlar, of course he does, and if he weren't so damn composed, Bruce would shiver.   
  
Instead, he jams an elbow back and it strikes against Superman's steel-hard abdomen, not doing a lick of damage but serving as a warning nonetheless. Superman grunts, still sounds amused, and chuckles under his breath.   
  
Diana, for that matter, doesn't look amused at all, fixing the both of them with such a stern expression that Bruce feels like a child being chastised by his grandmother. And of course Clark doesn't even have the grace to look ashamed. _Of course_.

***


	2. So... How Are You?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Batman has to save Superman. Yet again.

For a man who is “indestructible,” faster than a speeding bullet, and more powerful than a locomotive – Bruce is only quoting the tabloids here, he would never use such imprecise definitions himself – Superman manages to get himself indisposed quite often.   
  
And “quite often” he expects Batman to extricate him from these indispositions. Well, to be fair, Superman doesn't _expect_ anything, but he has such a high opinion of Batman that Bruce refuses to disappoint. The decision is entirely Bruce's of course, and he's never pressured into it, but he's intelligent enough to realize that sometimes, the world does need Superman. To keep Batman from getting bored if nothing else.   
  
Sneaking into Luthor's newest fortress is never a challenge for Batman. Luthor is very intelligent and very rich, but he has such a limited view. He always structures his defenses against Superman and other metahumans. He never thinks about Batman and his newest gadgets, or how easy – and subtle – it is to take a more mundane route that doesn't involve speeding down corridors (Flash), or breaking down walls (Hawk Girl).  
  
By the time Batman stands outside the cell where Superman is being kept for some nefarious plot of Luthor's that never makes sense, not even to Luthor, Batman is barely winded. In fact, he's more annoyed. He's had to leave Nightwing in charge of Gothan for this jolly jaunt to the edge of Metropolis and Luthor wasn't even creative this time. Not that Batman doesn't trust Nightwing, he just prefers to keep his eyes on Gotham himself.   
  
Dick says that he's possessive and a control freak. Bruce prefers to call it protective and doesn't deign to respond to the latter.   
  
Superman, for all that he's shackled with Kryptonite – where in the hell does Lex keep getting this stuff anyway? Bruce has only a small shard himself and it took hell and high water to get a hold of it – looks mighty cheery to see Batman standing there. He's a mess, sweaty, bloody, with a torn uniform and in need of a good night's sleep, yet he still pulls up a Boy Scout smile upon sight of Batman.   
  
“So,” Superman drawls, his voice a tad raspy from lack of hydration. “How are you?”   
  
Batman sighs, the sigh of one long-suffering. “Only you, Clark. Only you,” he mutters, as he pulls out his technologically advanced paperclip and picks the lock in seconds. The door swings open with a cheerful squeak and Batman steps inside, examining the Kryptonite cuffs. “Just so you know, I won't always be here to save your ass.”   
  
Clark laughs, a hoarse sound, as the cuffs click free and he all but slumps, forcing Bruce to catch him. “But then we wouldn't meet like this.”   
  
Of course, that's when Luthor's alarms start blaring and the sound of running floats to Batman's ears. If he had a response to Clark's blatant flirtation, it goes by the wayside.

***


	3. Jealousy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Batman is not pleased. Someone is infringing upon his territory.

Of all people to find himself being somewhat _growly_ over, Batman would have expected the least of them to be Green Lantern. If there is one person Batman can halfway tolerate on the Justice League – even with his overreaching sense of morals – it is John Stewart. John tends to value strategy over reckless rampaging, which is a plus in any one of Batman's books.   
  
However, at this very moment, Batman finds himself irritatingly and inexplicably narrow-eyed at Green Lantern. He passes it off as his usual ill temperament however, and no one seems to notice that his typing on the Watchtower's main console is faster-paced and more aggressive than usual, or that his shoulders and back are as stiff as a board.   
  
No one except Superman, of course, whose super senses can hear the quickening of Batman's heartbeat, the under his breath growling, the quiet creaking of his leather gloves, and the subtle tensing of his muscles. Superman is milking this response for all its worth, the manipulative bastard, doing with Green Lantern what he absolutely _refuses_ to do with Batman: acting contrite.   
  
John is giving Superman the talking to of a century. Certainly a first, but apparently, this one time of Superman flying in fists a blazing before crashing head first into a Kryptonite wall has struck a chord with Green Lantern. For the first time ever, he's making a fuss about it, chastising Superman as though he were a two year old breaking Mommy's precious vase as opposed to the world's biggest Boy Scout.   
  
And. Batman. Is. Not. Pleased.   
  
_He's_ the one who's supposed to remind Superman that he's not invincible. He's the one who isn't afraid of Superman or intimidated by him or who doesn't treat him like the next, best thing closest to God. He's the one who's not impressed.   
  
Where in the hell John has suddenly lost his ridiculous hero worship of Superman – whom all the members of the Justice League irritatingly carry as well, save Batman because he's too intelligent for such a thing – Batman doesn't know. But he wants John to find it and find it soon.   
  
Because Superman is listening. Superman is apologizing. Superman is admitting that he was wrong. Which he never deigns to do when Batman is the one berating him.   
  
Batman, despite his better interests, flicks his eyes up, catching a glimpse of Superman reflected in the monitor. And sees Superman catch his peek and wink. He's doing it on purpose, the bastard, because if there's one thing Superman enjoys more than baiting Batman, it's invoking previously unexperienced emotions in Batman.   
  
Oh, Clark is going to pay for this later.

***


	4. Tease

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's a bare touch, hardly any pressure, but it makes Superman heat up like a kettle on fire.

There is little Superman likes more than an honest challenge. When you are stronger than the average person, as well as faster, damn near invulnerable, and powered by the sun, there aren't many things that are a challenge. At least, not on Earth. Overpowered aliens with delusions of grandeur are a different story.   
  
Fortunately, for Superman, there is one challenge on Earth who never fails to make things interesting. Batman is so well-contained, that Superman derives great amusement from teasing the shadow out of his cave. (Which, by the way, is also an metaphor Clark will never repeat in front of Bruce for fear of being locked out of the Batcave, which is Batman's equivalent of being sent to sleep on the couch.)  
  
Learning new and unique ways to rile Batman, whether by encouraging sarcasm-filled repartee or responses of a more lusty nature, fills Superman with an unholy sort of glee.   
  
However, the times when Batman turns the tables on him, well, Superman likes those even better. Even if Batman likes to prove just how spontaneous he can be in the middle of a Justice League meeting where Superman can't do anything but pine.   
  
Batman would never act in an obvious manner, not if it called undue attention to himself, but he is not above causing Superman embarrassment. Especially in a way that can't be traced back to himself. Batman seems to derive as much joy out of humiliating Superman as Superman gets from pulling him out of his surly shell.   
  
Now, of course, would be the time that Batman proves he is not the uptight, black-hearted demon of the night as some might accuse of him.   
  
He is taking full advantage of the fact that Superman is the only one with X-ray vision. Batman sits, head cocked slightly to the side, watching as Jonn goes over the design specs for their new defense system, playing at being the perfect audience.  
  
Meanwhile, a gloved hand is stroking a subtle path from Superman's knee, up his thigh, and toward his groin. It's a bare touch, hardly any pressure, but it makes him heat up like a kettle on the fire. And he can't do anything because at this point, Superman would only draw attention to himself.   
  
So he nibbles on his bottom lip. Twitches imperceptibly. Practically hears the amusement vibrating in Batman's chest. Does, in fact, hear the subtle quickening of Batman's breathing and heart-rate, the heated rush of blood in his veins. The promise of more in the teasing stroke of fingers as they dip toward his inner thigh and creep upward, brushing across spandex with taunting sensation.   
  
When Superman blurs out of the meeting the moment Jonn adjourns it, Batman in tow (which Batman never ceases to remind him he _allows_ ), Batman only has himself to blame. Especially for the snickers that follow in their wake.

***


	5. Save the Last Dance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The average lifespan of a human is less than that of a Kryptonian. But today is not Batman's day to die.

The average life expectancy of the average human is 78.2 years. Bruce is 52. Arguably, he should have at least thirty solid years left in him. Life, it seems, has other ideas.   
  
Admittedly, it's a fitting way to go. In the midst of battle, defending his city. Bruce would much rather fall here, like this, than waste away in a convalescent home, or find himself one day unable to wear the suit. This, he decides, is a much more dignified end.   
  
He would have preferred if it had happened after the battle. He'd like to live long enough to see them win. The Justice League that is. Bruce knows they'll win; they always do. Still, it would be reassuring to have that confirmation. He'd find it easier to let go.   
  
But no, life once again has other ideas. Instead, he's lying here amidst a shattered building, three or four levels of stone and furniture and circuitry crumpled atop him. His head is uncovered, but the suits a mess. His breathing is stuttered, blood spilling out from numerous cuts. He clinically catalogs all of his wounds: ruptured internals, shattered ribs, punctured lung, numbness in his legs which doesn't bode well for mobility. There are other injuries, too, but Bruce has accomplished his goal.   
  
He knows he's dying; he doesn't need to pound that point home to himself.   
  
Bruce is glad that he's had the foresight to plan for this. There's a file in his systems stating what his team should do in the case of his death. He doesn't say it nearly enough, but he knows Dick is more than capable.   
  
His eyes flutter, vision blurry, but not so gone that he doesn't notice the smear of blue and red that suddenly invades his sight. A piece of rubble is tossed away, freeing Bruce's right leg.   
  
“Oh no, you don't,” Superman says, and another bit of stone flies to the side, baring Batman's broken body to the unrelenting summer heat. “You're not dying on me yet.”   
  
He'll crack a smirk, if only his jaw would work. But Bruce thinks it's been dislocated, too. So instead of a snappish retort, he glares. It's ineffective, Superman as immune to them as is to damn near everything else.   
  
The battle's still raging. What the hell is Superman doing here? He should be on the front line, taking down that massive... whatever it is that their enemy brought this time. And no, it doesn't matter which enemy in the end. They're all the same in one way or another.   
  
Superman reaches for him, hands strong but undeniably gentle, pulling Batman from the wreckage of what was once a hotel. “This isn't our last dance,” Superman says firmly, those blue eyes so focused on him, Bruce flushes.   
  
Well... if he puts it that way. Bruce supposes he has no choice but to live.

***


	6. Catch Me If You Can

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Superman has gotten the wrong impression; Batman tries to correct him.

It is virtually impossible to speak to Superman when he is avoiding you, Batman has discovered. Clark Kent, on the other hand, is much easier to trap. And Bruce has no shame in making it a public venue, one Clark cannot escape. Where Bruce can be honest, and purposefully vague for the sake of perceptive paparazzi. Where he can make his case known and Clark won't have a choice but to listen.   
  
After all, how else will Bruce be able to explain himself?  
  
“Mr. Wayne?” A reporter calls out his name, dragging his attention to the conference at hand. Wayne Enterprises had just signed another agreement with some up and coming electronics company in Metropolis and as usual, it is big news.   
  
Which means that the Daily Planet would most definitely be covering said event. Which means they would have to send one of their reporters, who just so happens to be Clark.   
  
Clark who is not happy with this subtle manipulation on Bruce's part. Clark who is glowering behind his professional mask of interest.   
  
“What first drew your attention to Obsidian Enterprises?” the reporter asks.   
  
“I have a business associate,” Bruce answers, letting his eyes wander over the reporter before he focuses intently on Clark, without making it seem he's doing so. “An old friend of mine who has proven to have a good sense of judgment and a keen understanding of what new technologies we are truly capable of.”   
  
Just a friend,Clark, Bruce stresses internally. A friend. An old friend. Not an old lover. Not whatever else stupid idea Clark's gotten into his fool head. Just a friend.   
  
Another reporter steps up to bat. “In which project, specifically, does Wayne Enterprises have an interest?”   
  
Bruce smiles the slow, easygoing and diplomatic smile of Bruce Wayne. “They have many plans that could prove profitable, but I have my sights set on a design for interstellar shielding.” He pauses, for effect, and looks at Clark again. “I think we can all agree that protecting those that are important to us is a priority.”  
  
Clark tilts his head to the side, some of the latent anger evaporating from his tense posture. He's smart enough to read between the lines. And maybe it's enough for him to stand still long enough for Bruce to explain. Actually, Clark owes it to Bruce to listen, for all those times Bruce has caught him in compromising positions with a certain Ms. Lane.   
  
The conference continues, but Bruce's point has been made. And he won't be surprised if a blue and red blur finds his way to the Batcave tonight. In fact, he had better.

****


	7. Surprise Kiss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is only one real way to surprise a Bat.

In a grocery list of injuries that Bruce has suffered under the guise of Batman, his current scrape hardly rates in the top twenty of worrisome bruises, cuts, and broken bones. In fact, it doesn't rate at all. The scrape is annoying, barely bleeds, and stings every time a drop of sweat slides across it. In short, he's barely paying attention to it.   
  
For some reason, however, Superman seems to be distracted by it. By the tear in Batman's reinforced costume, by the patch of flesh that's visible. By raised and reddened skin and the few drops of blood, bright splashes against the dark black of the batsuit.   
  
When the battle is over – they won of course – Batman makes plans to disappear back to the Batcave. Jonn has the helm, the villains are in the process of being carted away, and the League has suffered no serious injuries. All in all, it's another day in the life of a superhero. Gotham is calling to him and Batman doesn't like to leave her unattended for long.   
  
His work with the League is important but his city comes first. Always.   
  
Intent blue eyes follow the swish of black cape, however, and as Batman strides down the corridor, he somehow acquires a blue and red shadow.   
  
He turns, pausing. “Can I help you?”   
  
Superman, too, pauses and his searing gaze seems to zero in on Batman's arm. “You're hurt,” he says.   
  
Confused, Batman glances down at the scratch, one so mild it's already clotted. Won't even need a band-aid in fact. “No, I'm not.”   
  
“You are,” Superman insists, oddly, and there's a blur as he cuts the distance between them with his superhuman speed, taking Batman's scraped arm into hand. He peers intently at the wound, as though his X-ray vision has somehow evolved into miraculous powers of healing.   
  
Actually, coming from the alien who could rise from the dead, Batman wouldn't put such a thing past Superman.   
  
“Allow me to make it better,” Superman continues, his voice a low rumble that matches the sparkle in his eyes, as he lifts Batman's arm and presses a light kiss to the scratch.  
  
In the hallway. In full view of all and sundry.   
  
Batman stares at him, unsure how he ought to react. Superman, on the other hand, smirks with revealed humor.   
  
Making Batman speechless? Certainly a first. _Score_.

***


	8. X-Ray Vision

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The many talents of Superman. Or, alternatively, why Superman is the world's greatest detective.

Superman blinks as a red-yellow blur passes him in the hallway, making his cape billow out to the side.   
  
“SorrySupes. Notimetochatgottarunbye!” says the Flash, all in a rush.   
  
Shaking his head, Superman continues toward the Watchtower's main console, determined to drag J'onn out of his self-imposed solitude. He makes it around one corner, lifting a hand to greet Vigilante and Shining Knight as they pass, when the red-yellow blur streaks by him again, this time heading in the opposite direction.   
  
“IknowIleftthemheresomewhere.”   
  
He's gone again, in the blink of an eye and a suspicion creeps into the edges of Superman's mind. He bites back a sigh. Perhaps he's wrong. Only time will tell.   
  
Shaking his head, Superman picks up where he left off, stopping briefly to have a conversation with Captain Atom, who's looking rather chipper after his extended stay in the med-lab. Apparently, it takes time to reform his body.   
  
This time, Superman hears Flash before he sees the crimson blur, and he turns to watch, amusement crinkling the corners of his eyes. Captain Atom, too, seems amused and they watch as Flash runs past them, only to skid to a halt directly in front of Superman.   
  
“There you are!” he exclaims, as though Superman's been hiding somewhere instead of walking down the main corridor. “Say, do you think you could do me a favor...?” And he looks up at Superman with the largest puppy dog expression that Superman has ever born witness to. Flash, despite his eyes being covered by the opaque lenses, is a master at managing this.   
  
Superman sighs. As he suspected. “Again?”   
  
Flash nods. “Again.”   
  
Turning his head, Superman shifts to X-ray vision and scans the Watchtower, searching first the usual suspects before spying the missing item.   
  
“Third floor broom closet,” he says with patience only Ma Kent could have given him.   
  
Flash grins. “Thanks, big guy!” He playfully salutes and then vanishes, leaving Captain Atom to blink at Superman, very confused.   
  
Superman shrugs. “Lost his car keys again.”   
  
“Why does _he_ need a car?”   
  
“Your guess is as good as mine.”

***


	9. Comfort Zone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Batman is always right... except when he's not.

"I saw that.”   
  
Batman turns away, returning his attention to the Batcomputer, fingers clacking over the keys and bringing up new information. “I don't know what you mean.”   
  
Behind him, Superman has his arms crossed over his face, a petulant look on his face. “That smirk. That look that says _I'm always right_.”   
  
_Well, I am_ , Batman thinks, but he doesn't say so aloud. His lips twitch. “Do you deny that my tactics brought us our victory?”   
  
“No,” Superman huffs.  
  
“Do you deny that Owlman was brought down in the end?”   
  
In the reflection of the monitor, Batman could see those blue eyes narrow. “No.”   
  
A tap of his finger and a recent police report comes on the screen, but Batman's not really paying attention to the data. That so-called smirk is trying to steal across his lips. “Then you can't really deny that I was right, can you?”   
  
“That's not the point,” Superman says, and uncrosses his arms as he strides across the floor, coming to stand beside Batman, who turns to face him. “I'm not always wrong, you know.”   
  
“No,” Batman concedes, and his lips twitch. Again. “Just most of the time.”   
  
“You...” Superman shakes his head and gives him an exasperated look, with an edge of fondness. “You're doing this on purpose, aren't you?”   
  
“I don't know what you mean.” Inside, Batman is laughing.   
  
A flurry of emotions cross Superman's face – he is always so easy to read, which makes teasing him that much more amusing. “You,” he says, his hands landing lightly on Batman's shoulders, thumbs stroking over a collarbone buried beneath layers of Kevlar and protective lining, “Are the single most infuriating man I have ever met.”   
  
“It's all part of my charm,” Batman says, and reaches up, hooking a finger in the open collar of Superman's suit, dragging the hero closer to him. “It only proves that I'm always right.”   
  
“For now,” Superman says, and closes the distance between them for a kiss. Which, really, has been Batman's intention all along.

***


	10. Invisible

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Batman is indomitable; Bruce Wayne is only human.

They aren't a one of them invincible. Not even the indomitable Superman. This is a painful truth that Clark has forced himself to understand, that he wishes he could impart upon his fellow superheroes. They know it, each of them having their own Kryptonite. This weakness may not take the form of a green glowing rock, but it is there all the same.   
  
There are ways to circumvent the weaknesses. Override them, protect against them, overcome them in some cases. And yet, that they are not invincible, that death eventually comes for them all, is an inevitable truth.   
  
Nothing lasts forever. Not even the stars.   
  
Someday, Superman will pass, joining the rest of his fellow superheroes. A long time after Clark Kent has been laid to rest, so, too will Superman.   
  
That Bruce is the first to go doesn't surprise Superman. He is, after all, only human. He's not been augmented by magic or science. He doesn't have an ounce of metahuman blood in him. In fact, Bruce is defeated by the one foe he cannot defeat by sheer power of will alone – time.   
  
It is also the one foe Superman's fists cannot pummel, his vision cannot burn, and his speed cannot outrun. It is the one battle Superman is powerless to help Batman fight.   
  
Knowing that something is inevitable does not make it any easier to bear. Any easier to swallow. Any easier to sit here and draw up a famous, Boy Scout smile.   
  
Batman will have a successor. Bruce will not have planned for anything less. There are plenty members of the Batclan around to ensure that the Batman name will continue. That Batman will always be present to protect the citizens of Gotham, and when called upon, the people of Earth.   
  
But there is no replacement for Bruce Wayne. No equal, no consolation prize.   
  
“ _I wouldn't want to live forever_ ,” Bruce has said on too many occasions. Though he always follows up with a wry smirk and _“But dying right now isn't an option either.”_  
  
A smile tries to tug at Clark's lips, but it washes away just as quickly. The fingers in his hold are only growing colder, and not even Superman's excessive heat can keep them warm. Bruce's breathing is getting slower and slower, and the last time he opened his eyes was hours ago.   
  
Clark's not letting go until the absolute end, and perhaps not even then. He presses his lips to thin knuckles and keeps his silent vigil. They are none of them invincible, and Batman least of all.

***


	11. Waiting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clark said something he regrets; Bruce doesn't wait for an apology.

His strange abilities are manifesting with greater urgency nowadays, but Clark's inability to control them pales in comparison to his attempts to restrain his anger. He always reacts irrationally at first, saying such things that can't be easily taken back. Storming out when he knows good and well how Bruce will take such a thing.   
  
It's just like him though, Clark realizes, as he comes home to find their apartment half empty. Clark's belongings are still here, and anything that can't be packed into a couple of bags, but Clark can feel the absence anyway. There was always a lingering sense of his lover in these rooms, but now, even that is gone.   
  
The drawers are empty. Hangers are lopsided in the closet. The bathroom misses a pair of toothbrushes and razor blades and different soaps because Clark's just fine with a bar of Lever but Bruce prefers something with a more exotic scent.   
  
The bed has been meticulously made, as though Bruce is trying to say, _see, I have even left that behind_. Clark honestly can't remember the last time they bothered to smooth down the sheets and blanket, since they are always so quick to rumple both again.   
  
Clark sighs, scrubbing a hand down his face, and sits on the end of the bed, sheets carefully creased beneath him. He has only himself to blame. He's the one who told Bruce to figure out what he really wanted. Clark's the one who told him to leave if he was so intent on going through with something so foolish.   
  
By all appearances, Bruce has not changed his mind. Why Clark thought someone as stubborn as Bruce Wayne would, he doesn't know.   
  
But Bruce will be back. Clark does believe this. If anything, just to retrieve the rest of his belongings Or because he hates admitting defeat. By then, Clark will have calmed and they can talk about this like two rational adults.   
  
In fact, Clark's quite certain that they can get over this little hiccup and move on with their lives. Bruce can finish his program at the university; Clark can see if his internship at the Daily Planet will take hold. And when things settle, Clark can finally tell him why he keeps accidentally breaking things around their apartment.   
  
After all, they've argued before, what should make this any different? All Clark has to do is wait. Be patient. It's one of the few areas where he outpaces Bruce.   
  
When the news breaks out a week later, that Bruce Wayne, heir to the Wayne fortune and prince of Gotham, has vanished, Clark realizes that he might be mistaken. When Alfred calls him to reassure that Master Bruce is alive, not kidnapped, but gone for a purpose, Clark knows that Bruce's disappearance is partially his fault. He, like Alfred, can only sit and wait for Bruce's return.

***


	12. Pieces

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They all knew it was coming. That doesn't make it easier for Clark to bear.

He's the last to hear the news. Him. Batman. The one who knows anything and everything, is the last person to hear of this little very important detail. And he hears it from Wally of all people, who's moping around the Watchtower as though it's his own heart that's been broken.   
  
Batman lets the knowledge percolate for a moment, wondering what he should do. A dark, cruel part of him is secretly elated, because this is a chance. Another part of him, carefully hidden, wants nothing more than to rush out and provide comfort. Hah. Imagine him, Batman, terror of the night, offering comfort.   
  
He's Superman's friend though, isn't he? That's what he should be doing. Being there. Being a friend. A listening ear. Someone to break the self-inflicted solitude that no one else dares break. They are all too busy respecting Superman's wish to be alone to realize that being alone is the last thing someone like Clark Kent or Superman ever needs. Boy Scouts don't flourish well in solitude.   
  
Before he entirely agrees to do anything, Batman finds himself hopping into a Javelin and jetting down to Earth. He is one of the few people who can find Superman right now. He knows where Clark is: hiding in the Fortress of Solitude, surrounding himself with memories of a past he doesn't know, of a family he never met, and a planet he'll never see. Drowning himself in sorrow and loneliness, like it'll help. Only, all it's going to do is pour salt on the wound, rub it in, and make things worse.   
  
Batman should know.   
  
He arrives at the Fortress of Solitude and is surprised to find that Superman hasn't locked out any visitors despite his claim of wanting to be left alone. Batman doesn't have to spend hours searching the many rooms, corridors, and whatnot. He has a decent idea of where Superman has holed himself. And he's right.   
  
He finds Clark in the Archive, sitting at the huge terminal and watching several screens. To no surprise, most of them depict Lois Lane, his soon to be ex-wife.   
  
“You don't have to feel sorry for me,” Clark says, the moment Bruce stands in the entryway, no doubt having heard his arrival. “I knew it was coming.”   
  
“Who said I felt sorry for you?” Bruce replies, moving to stand next to Clark. “Perhaps I just wanted to be here.”   
  
Clark swivels in his chair, looking at Bruce with eyes filled of emotion, too much for Bruce to readily identify. “I'm glad you came,” he says quietly.   
  
Bruce returns his gaze. “Of course I did."

***


	13. Shaken

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Batman and Wonder Woman flirt.

"I want to thank you for doing this, Bruce. J'onn tried but he's so busy.”   
  
“I am probably the only one who can do it properly anyway. This design is not unlike that of the Batplane's in fact.”   
  
“Which makes sense if you consider that Owlman is not so different from you.”   
  
“Very different.”   
  
“Yes, of course. Is there any way that I can help?”  
  
“Do I ever need help?”   
  
“Quite frequently, yes. Do you ask for it? No. Honestly, Bruce, you could learn a lesson in teamwork.”   
  
“So says the woman who is quick to rush off and solve problems on her own. A certain occasion with Faust ring any bells?”   
  
“That was the one time.”   
  
“And yet my point has been made. How did you break this anyway?”  
  
“Long story. I'm sure you wouldn't be interested.”  
  
“If I wasn't interested, I wouldn't have asked. Could you hand me that wrench?”   
  
“What happened to not needing help?”   
  
“...”   
  
“Very well. Here's your wrench.”   
  
“What are you-- Diana. Sitting there is not helping me fix this any faster.”   
  
“You don't need help, remember? I have to thank you somehow.”   
  
“By perching upon me? Don't touch the belt! It's--”   
  
“Oh.”   
  
“Yes. Boobytrapped. And yes, it's necessary. Criminals aren't exactly honorable and-- Diana? Why are you looking at me like that? I told you not to touch it."

***


	14. Losing My Religion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Superman plans to leave; Batman doesn't beg.

"What are you doing here?”   
  
Batman sounds stiff and cold, anger buried deep. His shoulders are equally rigid, and he hasn't turned around. He's only barely acknowledged Superman.   
  
“Shouldn't you be leaving now?”   
  
Superman feels the urge to apologize, though he's done nothing wrong. “You've heard then.”   
  
“Of course I have,” Batman says tightly and he still won't look at Superman. “I'm surprised you haven't already gone.”   
  
He works his jaw, fights himself for patience, knows why Batman is lashing out. “I have to go.”   
  
“I'm not asking you to stay.”   
  
Oh, but he is. Just not with words.   
  
“I understand,” Batman continues, still with that same dull tone. “It's Krypton. The home you've never known. I can see why you are compelled to go. That you are abandoning us is only a consequence.”   
  
“Abandoning... is that the way you see it?” Superman is aghast.   
  
Batman's twitch is imperceptible. He won't turn to look at Superman. His fingers are flying over the keyboard, but Superman doesn't believe he's accomplishing a thing. “Of course not.” Batman snorts, full of pretend offense and real hurt. “But that's the way it will be interpreted. What will we all do, I wonder, without Superman to save us?”   
  
“The Justice League is very capable of protecting Earth. I'm not indispensable, Bruce.”  
  
Apparently, that is the wrong thing to say, for Bruce stiffens visibly. “If that is true, then you'd best be on your way. No need to delay, Superman.”   
  
It's a dismissal, clear as day. Superman turns to leave, knowing it's best. But he hesitates, unwilling to fly off without saying something, without some kind of reassurance. “I'll see you when I return. I am coming back.” He leaps into the air and heading out of the Batcave, his gut churning with conflicting feelings.   
  
“I thought Boy Scouts weren't supposed to lie,” he hears Bruce say, using a volume no human would be able to hear, but Clark is not only human, and Bruce knows that.

***


	15. You Look Better When I'm Drunk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The League throws a party. Someone has a crush. Implied Bat/Flash.

Parties are, in Batman's opinion, unbecoming of superheroes. This, of course, does not stop the Justice League from throwing one at any and every opportunity. Holidays? Check. Birthdays? Check. National Hot Dog Day? Check.   
  
He strongly suspects that the perpetrator of these celebrations is Flash. Flash who can wheedle and cajole and wobble those big, lens-covered eyes with the best of them, easily persuading even the more stoic members of the League into his schemes.   
  
Batman usually finds his way out of these parties. He cites patrol. He cites a need to monitor the planet for danger. Someone has to stay in the monitor room after all. This time, however, he's been outwitted. The batclan is patrolling in Gotham. J'onn's at the helm, but only for the next hour as they plan on rotating it amongst all the members of the League. They've given him no excuse.   
  
So here he is. At a party. Watching the members of the League and their new expanded members proceed to get drunk and giddy and act very unbecoming of superheroes. Also, there is also the matter of Flash, who's being particularly annoying about the whole thing.   
  
All night it's been: _“Hey, Bats! Want another drink?”_ or _“Try some of the dip! Captain Atom made it!”_ or _“Do you like this song? I like this song!”_ and most recently, “ _Here! Have some more punch!_ ” Doesn't he have anyone else he can bother?   
  
Superman, of course, finds this _most_ amusing. “I think someone has a crush,” he says, leaning in close to Batman, taking up his personal space with all of his suffocating Boy Scout do-gooder-ness.   
  
“I think you need your eyes checked,” Batman retorts and takes a long sip of the bright blue punch which actually isn't that bad. He is, on a matter of principle, refusing to sample any of the alcoholic wares. _Someone_ will need to be sober enough to handle a potential villain attack.   
  
“I have x-ray vision,” he says as though Batman needs the reminder. “And I know what I'm seeing.”   
  
Batman gives him a sidelong look. “I think Diana is trying to beckon you for a dance.”   
  
“No, she's not.” Superman laughs. “And look. Your secret admirer is on his way again.”   
  
Batman huffs, but Superman is right. Flash blurs into the space in front of them. “Your glass is looking a bit empty,” he jokes. “But you always see it as half-empty, doncha?”  
  
Batman feels himself twitch and Superman radiating amusement beside him. “Flash?”   
  
“Yeah, Bats?” Everything about Flash is suddenly, completely focused on Batman. To the exclusion of anyone else. If he's even noticed Superman's presence, Flash hasn't shown it yet.   
  
“Are you drunk?” Can Flash even get drunk? Wouldn't his metabolism burn away all effects of the alcohol.   
  
Flash scoffs, wobbles a bit. “Nooooo.”   
  
Which, of course, means that he actually is. Batman swallows down a sigh. “I appreciate the offer,” he says, “but I don't need any more punch. Thank you anyway.”   
  
Despite the lens, Batman swears that Flash's eyes light up. “No problem, Bats!” he says, and pauses, practically vibrating in place. It's as though he's considering saying something further, debating with himself in rapid-fire thoughts, before he changes his mind. “See you later!” And then he's gone.   
  
Superman makes a noise which sounds suspiciously like muffled chortling. “Told you so.”   
  
“Shut up,” Batman says curtly. And maybe, just a fraction flattered. But only a fraction.

***


	16. Dreamscapes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Morning afters are fun. Not. BatFlash.

He wakes feeling like he's made of fuzz, from the cottony taste on his tongue to the pillow-fluff in his brain. Flash groans, a twitch racing through his body as his thoughts bounce off jello walls. Oh crimony. Did anyone get the name of the villain that stomped on his head?

Rolling over, he finds that not only had he slept in his suit, but he's also drooled everywhere. Gross. And so attractive.

Flash stumbles out of bed and into the bathroom attached to his room, peering blearily at himself in the mirror. Nearly blood-shot brown eyes stare back at him. What in god's name happened last night?

Well, he remembers the party. And the music. And dancing. And the punch. And Batman.

Oh no. Flash groans, banging his forehead on the mirror. Had he really spent most the night following around Bats like an overeager puppy?

Why yes. Yes he had.

Knocking on his door interrupts his self-recrimination. “Flash?”

“I'm up!” he hollers, and splashes some cold water on his face. Doesn't make him feel any more awake though.

His door opens and GL invites himself inside, making a beeline for the bathroom and hovering in the doorway like an amused parent or something. “You look like hell, kid.”

“Ha, ha.” Flash rolls his eyes. “Thanks for tucking me in.”

“Wasn't me.”

It wasn't? Who else would bother to make sure Flash didn't sleep on top of a table again? It wasn't Diana. And then, he has a flash of memory. Wait... Bats? Flash groans again, completely mortified.

“I'm never gonna live this down.”

“Look on the bright side.” GL claps him on the shoulder. “He didn't dump you on the floor.”

Flash brightens. “Maybe I'm getting through to him.”

Lantern chuckles. “Keep dreaming, Kid. Keep dreaming.”

***


	17. Alcohol Abuse (aka Who Spiked the Eggnog?)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Batman is starting to suspect that someone may have spiked the egg nog

The first time Diana giggled, Batman thought there might be a problem. Then Green Lantern climbed on top of a table, wobbling as he started telling war stories to anyone who would listen. Afterward, J'onn kept falling out of his chair because he would randomly phase through it, then look around startled like he couldn't believe it had happened (or remember precisely how).

The icing on the cake, however, was when Batman caught Flash trying to chat up Black Canary in a corner while a red-faced and oblivious Green Arrow insisted everyone do karaoke with him (and where he got that sound system set up for karaoke Batman was convinced he'd never know).

The candle on the cake, however, was Superman and whatever he called that ungraceful, flailing movement out on the floor. A dance? Maybe if Batman squinted. He'd always thought Superman lacked rhythm but having to see it in person? Not on his to do list for the day.

Bad enough he'd been tricked into coming to this Justice League Holiday-Christmas-Kwanzaa-Hanukkah-Just for the Hell of It Party.

Batman was strongly starting to suspect that someone had spiked the egg nog, something of which he hadn't had a single drop since he'd always loathed egg nog, even as a kid.

With Booster Gold loudly encouraging Green Lantern for one more story and Supergirl joining her talent-less cousin out on the dance floor (lack of rhythm seemed to be a Kryptonian trait), Batman decided it was in his best interest to investigate. A sniff and a small taste later, and he'd confirmed his suspicions. Yes, someone had spiked the egg nog, and more than once by the smell of it.

But who? Surely the culprit would be wise enough to stay away from their own misdeed, yet everyone present seemed to be well on their way to inebriation. (And Batman strongly suspected that many of his fellow superheroes had recognized said spiking and thought to hell with it, happy for an excuse to cut loose and blame someone else later. And, for that matter, where in the Universe did the perpetrator get a spiking agent that would affect the myriad of physiologies present in the Justice League?)

Batman sighed. With the amount of laughing, giggling, uncoordinated dancing, and repeated trips to the egg nog (they had to know it was altered by now!), he was quite certain that the enire Justice League was going to be not only useless tomorrow, but severely hung over with a major mess on their hands.

Well, this was where being only an part-time member came in handy. Batman could return to his Batcave, quiet as you please, and not be in charge of cleaning up so much as one spilled drink.

Ha. And Flash had tried to tell him he'd only get coal in his stocking. Served him right.

***


	18. Voodoo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There must be something inherently addictive about Kryptonians to humans, Batman muses.

There must be something inherently addictive about Kryptonians to humans, Batman hypothesizes. Because no matter how often he turns his back on Superman, or how vehemently he tells himself _just this once_ or _one last time_ , he finds himself right back on Superman's doorstep and in Superman's bed, and surrendering to those heated touches, that hungry mouth, collapsing in a tangle of sweaty limbs, racing hearts, and mind-blowing orgasms.   
  
He usually has better self-control than this, but something about Clark Kent and Kal-El and Superman makes Batman lose all sense of rationale. He knows all the reasons why this shouldn't-wouldn't-couldn't-can't work, but here he is again, standing across from Superman and giving the big Boy Scout the gimlet eye. He doesn't even have to speak for Superman to know what he wants, and Superman never declines to give it to him.   
  
Batman doesn't know what to call it. A way to forget. A way to remember. A way to feel, a way not to feel. A way to not be alone, a way to surrender his solitude. It can't be love; it must be love. It's affection, probably. It's a twist on friendship.   
  
It's Superman's mouth on his, tongues tangling, the taste of oranges on his lips and the feel of those strong hands manipulating Batman as though he weighed little more than a child's toy. Hands that can easily rip through Kevlar, but choose instead to carefully peel it aside, undoing clasps and zippers and buttons. Hands that roam and caress and tweak and rub, turning Batman into an arching, moaning, squirming bundle of want.   
  
Once upon a time, he'd accused Superman of casting some spell on him. (That statement had been made in mostly jest, but at the time, Batman had been convinced that it could be the only logical explanation for his sudden change in outlook on the annoyingly optimistic superhero.) Superman had not been amused; Zatanna even less so. And Batman had quickly dismissed that particular theory, which led him to the current one concerning Kryptonian physiology being addictive to humans.   
  
That's the only explanation Batman can find for the way he grips Superman's head, pulls him down for a kiss that makes his spine tingle and his body heat. It's the only rational reason for Batman to shove Superman onto the bed, divest him of all his clothes, and attack all that perfect skin with lips and teeth and tongue. For the way Superman's hand on his cock feels just this side of body-shuddering perfection, and the way Batman always comes back for more.   
  
Well, whatever the reason, Batman will have to figure it out later. Right now, he just wants to taste and touch and surrender and let Superman do much of the same. Later, he can wonder why he's so comfortable sleeping next to a snoring Clark Kent in a lumpy bed in the middle of Metropolis. Later he can figure out all the confusing details. Because Superman's getting that look in his eyes that bodes well for multiple orgasms and distractions are definitely not wanted or needed. Logic can wait.

***


	19. Sugar and Spice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Bruce is a tease but not for long.

The sound of the shower drowns out nearly everything else. The rising steam paints everything in a light mist. Soapy suds continue a slow trek downward. Bruce watches the path of those bubbles with hungry eyes, fingers twitching to touch.   
  
Clark's amused chuckle echoes in the shower. “Are you going to stare at me or join in?”   
  
“It's not a bad view from where I'm standing,” he replies, watching Clark's muscles flex and water stream over his wholly unmarked body. Clark has no scars, a testament to his nearly impenetrable skin and superior healing rate. He's not like Bruce at all, who is an array of scars beneath his clothing.   
  
“I didn't know you were such a voyeur,” Clark teases.   
  
“I'm not. I like to participate, too,” Bruce teases right back and then steps closer, his hands brushing softly against Clark's side before sliding along soapy skin. His palms skim Clark's flesh, flattening as they circle around and lay flat against Clark's well-muscled belly.   
  
Bruce presses close against Clark's back, feeling the heat the Kryptonian always exudes, along with the heat of the shower. His cock nestles against Clark's buttocks and a shiver of pleasure dances down Bruce's spine. He grinds his hips for a moment, just enjoying the sensation of rubbing against Clark's body.   
  
“I prefer to plan my attack in advance,” Bruce adds as one flattened palm skates upward, dragging a slow, tortuous path up Clark's abdomen and towards his pectorals.   
  
Clark leans forward,dipping his head under the spray to rinse out the last of the shower. “And what did you decide?” he asks, voice betraying his state of rising arousal.   
  
“That I so rarely get you to myself so I'd better take advantage of it.” Bruce mouths the back of Clark's shoulder, tasting water, clean skin, and the bitter hint of soap. His second hand brushes downward from Clark's belly, finding the evidence of Clark's arousal and curling now-soap slick fingers around it.   
  
Clark makes a low noise in his throat, hips bucking toward Bruce's grip. One hand drops, fingers curling around Bruce's wrist as though preventing him from letting go of Clark's cock. The other reaches around, tangling in Bruce's hair.   
  
“I can agree with that,” Clark says, a shudder enveloping his body as he pushes back against Bruce. “So don't tease me.”   
  
Bruce gasps in mock offense. “I would never,” he purrs, and begins a slow, steady stroke, thumb rubbing the head of Clark's cock. Seeing him come undone is always the first step.

  
***


	20. Insubstantial Evidence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the World's Greatest Detective has no trouble finding the perpetrator.

In the end, it's not really hard to find Flash. All Batman has to do is follow the trail of abandoned cupcake wrappers as they lead from the mess, down the hall, into the stairwell, up two flights, down another corridor, and stop directly in front of Flash's private quarters.

If there's one thing that Flash has yet to perfect, or even manage to be passable with, it's subterfuge. Diana's on a warpath over the fact her entire assortment of cupcakes had been consumed, and the first place Flash thinks to hide is his room?

Shaking his head, Batman raises a hand to knock but the door slides open before his knuckles so much as rap across the metal. Hmm. Interesting.

He steps into Flash's dimmed quarters, hearing more cupcake wrappers crinkle beneath his boots, and the door slides shut behind him. There's a three-toned beep indicating that it's been locked. Not that the door could ever stop a determined, furious Diana.

There's a lump on Flash's bed. A moaning, piteous lump.

“You just couldn't help yourself,” Batman says flatly, navigating around the minefield of cupcake detritus toward Flash's bed. “You had to eat them all. What happened to your lightning-fast metabolism?”

A wretched groan arises from the bed as Batman arrives at his destination.

Flash looks up at him, or Wally rather as he's pushed back his facemask to reveal rumpled red hair, miserable brown eyes, and the flecks of vanilla icing on the corners of his mouth. A part of Batman is amused and annoyed by this. Another, much crazier, part of him wants to lean over and help himself to that scrap of icing.

“I've been beaten by cupcakes!” Flash cries, overdramatic, and flops out over his bed, thrusting more cupcake wrappers to the floor in the process.

Despite himself, Batman's lips twitch. “A consequence of your own gluttony.”

Flash wriggles about on the bed, until he can look up at Batman with a pleading expression. “You'll avenge me, won't you, Bats?”

Leaning over, Batman ever so slowly swipes the speck of icing from the corner of Flash's mouth, and idly laps it from the tip of his gloved finger. “Sweet,” he says thoughtfully.

Flash stares up at him, eyes wide with shock. “Did you just...?” He gulps loudly. “That was the... oh hell yeah, I'm healed.” He bolts upright, like a spring. “Again.”

Batman leans closer, with every intention of complying.

Too bad for Flash, that's the exact moment Diana breaks down his door.

****


	21. Good For You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Alfred offers his ward some advice.

He finds Master Bruce in the study, staring up at the portrait of his parents. To anyone else, his expression would be closed off, unreadable. But Alfred has helped raise this child from a little, lost boy to the grown man he is today.

He can see Master Bruce's pain and uncertainty. The constant self-doubt. The worry he's making all the wrong choices.

Alfred stays quiet, but he is not trained. Master Bruce knew the moment he entered the room.

“I've been standing here for an hour trying to guess what they would say,” Master Bruce says softly, his words easily carrying to Alfred's ears.

Ah. Alfred understands now.

“It is my opinion that parents only ever want one thing: for their children to be happy.”

“Would they approve?”

The root of the issue then. “Are you happy, Master Bruce?”

There's a weighty pause and Master Bruce's gaze lowers, his shoulders shifting out of their high hold. “Yes.”

Alfred smiles at such a frank admission. “Then yes. I've known your father since he was just a boy and I can assure you, he'd approve. I knew your mother slightly less, but I am certain she would feel the same.”

Some of the visible tension in the room lifts. “The world will see things differently.”

“The world doesn't bear your burdens, Master Bruce.”

A thoughtful silence takes over. He can tell that Master Bruce is mulling this over, no doubt weighing and debating costs and consequences and benefits. In so many ways, he is too practical, especially for a situation that first requires heart.

“If I may be so bold, sir,” Alfred finally begins, “He's good for you. And that is all that matters to me.”

Master Bruce finally turns toward him, a twitch of a smile on his lips. “You always know what to say, Alfred.”

“Not always,” Alfred replies with a smile of his own. “But I try.”

***


	22. Small Steps

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clark seeks some advice from Alfred.

He wakes before Bruce so much as twitches and slides out of the bed without disturbing his lover. Clark, eager to impress, scurries downstairs. This is the first time he's quote-unquote been allowed to stay the night with Bruce. To share his bed without being kicked out in the middle of much-won cuddling. 

He knows that Bruce has a butler. He and Alfred have commiserated on many an occasion. Still, Clark thinks it would be a nice surprise for Bruce to taste some good, old-fashioned Smallville home cooking. Of the breakfast variety. It also, possibly, might be something of a bribe. 

Clark is elbow-deep in pancake batter and fresh-squeezed orange juice when Alfred joins him in the kitchen.

“Well,” the butler says with a bit of a dismayed look at the state of his kitchen. “I do believe this is the first time someone has beaten me to breakfast.” 

Clark laughs. “Don't worry. I'll clean it up in a flash.” And he means it, too. Bend a little space-time here, zip around there, and boom, shiny kitchen. With great power comes great responsibility. 

“I'm certain you will.” Alfred smoothly steps up beside him, easily inferring what Clark could use some help with and offering a hand. “Might I ask the occasion?” 

“Just felt like it.” Clark shrugs, flipping pancakes with a deft flicks of his wrist. 

“Hmm.” Alfred pulls a tray out of a cabinet and lines it with a nice cloth, setting it up with dishes for breakfast for two. “Well in that case, might I suggest some coffee to go with this orange juice?” 

Clark snaps his fingers. He knew he'd forgotten something. “You're right. From the way he drinks it, I half-suspect his blood is coffee.” 

Alfred chuckles. “A suspicion I have also grown.” He sets the pot to brewing and pulls down the necessary mugs. “Also, he's much more amenable to requests after he's had a cup or two. So I would suggest waiting until he's finished.” 

“I don't know what you mean.” Playing dumb is one thing Clark Kent excels at. Or so Bruce has told him time and time again. Except Bruce likes to tease and say that pretending has nothing to do with it. 

At least, Clark thinks he's teasing. Sometimes, it's hard to tell. 

“Of course you don't.” Alfred performs a very exaggerated wink and dusts off his hands. “I think I'll go check on Master Tim. Good luck, Mr. Kent.” 

“Thanks.” He's probably going to need all the luck he can get. 

Clark ever so carefully arranges the breakfast, pours Bruce a steaming cup of coffee – black with a nudge of creamer – and picks up the tray. He inhales, tightens his buns of steel, and tells himself that his lover is not the most frightening person he's ever faced. He's taken down Darkseid for heaven's sake. 

Darkseid's never had to face a grumpy Bat first thing in the morning though. Damn supervillains have all the luck. 

Chin held high, Clark heads for the stairs with nary a rattle of dishware. Coffee first, then the food, then he'll ask. The worst Bruce can do is turn him down. Right? 

 

***


	23. Coffee First

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With great power comes great responsibility, including cleaning up the mess he made in the kitchen.

He wakes before Bruce so much as twitches and slides out of the bed without disturbing his lover. Clark, eager to impress, scurries downstairs. This is the first time he's quote-unquote been allowed to stay the night with Bruce. To share his bed without being kicked out in the middle of much-won cuddling. 

He knows that Bruce has a butler. He and Alfred have commiserated on many an occasion. Still, Clark thinks it would be a nice surprise for Bruce to taste some good, old-fashioned Smallville home cooking. Of the breakfast variety. It also, possibly, might be something of a bribe. 

Clark is elbow-deep in pancake batter and fresh-squeezed orange juice when Alfred joins him in the kitchen.

“Well,” the butler says with a bit of a dismayed look at the state of his kitchen. “I do believe this is the first time someone has beaten me to breakfast.” 

Clark laughs. “Don't worry. I'll clean it up in a flash.” And he means it, too. Bend a little space-time here, zip around there, and boom, shiny kitchen. With great power comes great responsibility. 

“I'm certain you will.” Alfred smoothly steps up beside him, easily inferring what Clark could use some help with and offering a hand. “Might I ask the occasion?” 

“Just felt like it.” Clark shrugs, flipping pancakes with a deft flicks of his wrist. 

“Hmm.” Alfred pulls a tray out of a cabinet and lines it with a nice cloth, setting it up with dishes for breakfast for two. “Well in that case, might I suggest some coffee to go with this orange juice?” 

Clark snaps his fingers. He knew he'd forgotten something. “You're right. From the way he drinks it, I half-suspect his blood is coffee.” 

Alfred chuckles. “A suspicion I have also grown.” He sets the pot to brewing and pulls down the necessary mugs. “Also, he's much more amenable to requests after he's had a cup or two. So I would suggest waiting until he's finished.” 

“I don't know what you mean.” Playing dumb is one thing Clark Kent excels at. Or so Bruce has told him time and time again. Except Bruce likes to tease and say that pretending has nothing to do with it. 

At least, Clark thinks he's teasing. Sometimes, it's hard to tell. 

“Of course you don't.” Alfred performs a very exaggerated wink and dusts off his hands. “I think I'll go check on Master Tim. Good luck, Mr. Kent.” 

“Thanks.” He's probably going to need all the luck he can get. 

Clark ever so carefully arranges the breakfast, pours Bruce a steaming cup of coffee – black with a nudge of creamer – and picks up the tray. He inhales, tightens his buns of steel, and tells himself that his lover is not the most frightening person he's ever faced. He's taken down Darkseid for heaven's sake. 

Darkseid's never had to face a grumpy Bat first thing in the morning though. Damn supervillains have all the luck. 

Chin held high, Clark heads for the stairs with nary a rattle of dishware. Coffee first, then the food, then he'll ask. The worst Bruce can do is turn him down. Right? 

***


	24. As the World Falls Down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce gets older while Wally hardly ages.

The years grow shorter, time passing with greater speed. And of them all, Bats is the only one getting older. Of course, none of them can really see it considering he wears that cowl all the time, but they can tell. 

Wally's not the sharpest knife in the drawer, but he's as quick on the uptake as he is on his feet. 

Batman's reflexes are slowing, his punches losing some of their fierce flavor. His mind is as sharp as ever, but his body is betraying him. Aging as all mortals do. 

Wally supposes he's lucky. His unique genetic configuration will extend his life span, longer probably than he wants to don the Flash costume. Most of the core Justice League is like that and Superman might outlive them all so he doesn't count. Then again, J'onn might surprise them. Who knows? 

But Bats? He's the only real human out of all of them. He's got nothing but his wits and a body carefully honed and maintained for superhero work. But not even the most stubborn of workout routines can fight against time and age. 

He's still handsome, at least in Wally's opinion. Even with that shock of grey hair, something that Wally half-suspects is caused by stress as much as it is age. But his body's getting weaker and Wally knows, he's going to have to hang up the Batsuit soon and Wally can't help but wonder if that, more than anything, is going to break Bruce. 

He can't see himself beyond the suit anymore. Of all of them, Batman is the true face and Bruce the mask. Most can't see it. J'onn probably, but he can cheat. He can look right into Batman's psyche and see the truth of things. Wally's just lucky that Bruce has let him in, even if only a little. 

Bruce lives to be Batman. Nothing else really matters to him. 

Well, no. That isn't true. Bruce does treasure his friendships, the family he's crafted for himself out of other broken and lonely children of Gotham. But Bruce hasn't really looked to the future. He hasn't tried to imagine a life beyond the Batsuit and his relentless pursuit of Justice for his city. 

Sometimes... well, all the time actually... Wally thinks that Bruce doesn't know how to be anything but Batman anymore. Like he's made himself into this image, this ideal, and there can't be anything outside of it anymore. 

Which has made it nothing short of a miracle that Bruce has let Wally get as close as he is. That they've graduated from co-workers, to friends, and something a bit more, something that includes Wally crawling into bed beside Bruce some early mornings and getting wrapped in those brawny arms. 

Wally's no slouch but even he has to admit that Bruce has crafted himself to be strong, that his physique shows that effort. Wally's whipcord lean and that suits him. 

Bruce gets older, Wally hardly ages, and he still doesn't know what to think. 

He stands in the Batcave, watches Bruce get up from his chair and there's a catch. A hitch in his motion. His hand goes to his lower back, only to quickly snap away when he sees that Wally's watching. But the damage is done. 

Age – and a hefty dose of heavily sustained injuries over decades of going toe to toe with Gotham and Earth's criminal element – has taken its toll. 

Bruce scowls. Wally knows better than to offer his usual grin and poorly timed joke. 

“Don't say a word,” Bruce says, his tone sharp and chastising, but Wally can detect the affection in it. Deep, deep beneath the surface, but it's there. 

“I wasn't going to,” Wally replies honestly, and waits for Bruce to come to him. He doesn't offer an arm. Bruce isn't that old yet. 

“I can see it on your face,” Bruce retorts, but it's missing most of the sharp edge. “Shouldn't you be out doing good deeds or something?” 

“Or something. I'm off duty.” 

Bruce snorts. In his opinion, there's no such thing as off duty. “You can't think you're going to spend the night, do you?” 

Wally smiles. “Actually, I was. You've got the emperor sized bed and back home, I'd have to squeeze into that tiny twin. I miss the space.” He can't say what he actually means. 

Bruce makes another dismissing noise but glances at the Batcomputer screen again. None of his sensors are screaming danger. The police scanners are silent. Tim's already back from patrol, Barbara's finishing up one final sweep, and Dick, well, they still aren't talking. 

“Just don't break anything,” Bruce concedes and presses a button on the keyboard, putting the computer into Watch Mode so that he can bow to the demands of his body and rest. 

From Bruce, that's practically an engagement. 

Wally's smile softens from affection. Bruce is getting older, and maybe that's making him just a tad bit softer, but Wally loves him anyway. 

***


	25. The Man Who Has Everything

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What do you get for the man who has everything? This is what Clark ponders.

What do you get for the man who had everything?   
  
Anything Bruce could possibly need, he could buy for himself. Anything he could want, Clark could not get for him. He was Superman, but even he could not turn back time or bring back Bruce's parents. He could not, with a blink of his eye, completely clear Gotham of crime. Besides, he suspected that a Gotham that didn't need Batman, would result in a not-quite-sane Bruce.   
  
Clark also knew that he couldn't very well ask Bruce what he wanted. Because Bruce would also say that he didn't need or want anything. That the act of gift-giving wasn't particularly important to him but Clark would nevertheless find the perfect present waiting for him under the tree, wrapped in lead-lined paper. Because Bruce was inventive like that and prided himself on always being two steps ahead of everyone, friend and foe.   
  
Neither Bruce nor Batman liked to be taken care of. They did not like to be helped, except by a special few who somehow qualified as being with a certain sphere of affection. Bruce never disdained Alfred's help, but let Clark offer to so much as make the bed and the billionaire got that look in his eyes that spoke of much couch-sleeping later.   
  
Clark was at a loss. His creativity was strapped. He didn't want to give Bruce another piece of Kryptonian technology that made the inner-geek within him squeal for joy (though outwardly Bruce had murmured a quiet thanks and disappeared into the Batcave to dissect said piece of technology for the rest of the week). Interesting gems and metals and elements from other planets were Wally's trademark gifts and Clark wasn't about to start copying him.   
  
Bruce didn't drink and he could buy himself whatever vintage, rare, what-have-you was available anyway.   
  
Bruce didn't like Clark to cook for him. (The whole Alfred and sphere of affection trend that Clark noted earlier.)  
  
And somehow, Clark suspected that a handmade book of sexual coupons was not going to impress his high maintenance lover either.   
  
With an unnecessarily loud (and forceful since it sent half the stack of papers spread on the kitchen table fluttering to the floor) sigh, Clark buried his head in his arms and groaned. Christmas was four days away and he was running out of time.   
  
“You look troubled, Master Kent.”   
  
Clark honestly didn't know how Alfred managed it. He'd accused the butler on more than one occasion of harboring the same kind of ninja training that Bruce had. But Alfred had merely chuckled and waved off the accusation. Still, he always managed to sneak up on Clark. Him. Superman. The alien with supernatural hearing. And yet he found himself startling about two feet in the air at the unexpected sound of Alfred's voice.   
  
His knee slammed into the underside of the table and Clark stifled an impolite word. “Hello, Alfred.”   
  
The butler was carrying two bags of groceries, both of which he set upon the table and began to sort. Clark slid from his stool to assist. Alfred, at least, didn't mind being helped.   
  
“I repeat my statement, Master Kent.”   
  
Clark offered Alfred a lopsided smile. “I am not so much troubled as I am at a loss for ideas.” He placed two cartons of milk in the fridge. “Bruce is impossible to buy for.”   
  
“Ah. The dilemma that attacks everyone in this household at this time of year.” Alfred made a sound of understanding. “I counseled Master Tim on this very matter just last week.”   
  
“And?”   
  
It was Alfred's turn to offer him a half-curved grin. “I doubt that my suggestions to him will be as useful to you.”   
  
Clark spread his hands, propping his hip against a counter. “I'm desperate.”  
  
“I suppose a long-winded and stern lecture about the necessity of such things coming from the heart would be useless as well?”  
  
“My heart's just as desperate as the rest of me.”   
  
Alfred chuffed a laugh. “So I see. Very well then. Let me prepare dinner and we can brainstorm together.”   
  
“Deal.”   
  
Clark grinned. Trust Alfred to have the answer.

***  



	26. A Little Romance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes, Clark just wants a little romance. Is that too much to ask?

Planning anything in advance has always been an exercise in futility. There's always some major disaster or planet-wide threat or crazy psycho bent on world domination. Clark has gotten used to being spontaneous, at taking what chances he can get to corner Bruce in a supply closet, or a shower stall, or sneaking into his massive bedroom at the manor for a little cuddle-time.   
  
Bruce, of course, abhors cuddle time. Sometimes, he'll relent if Clark looks pitiful enough, but the fact of the matter remains. Their relationship requires spontaneity to survive.   
  
But every once in a while Clark wants a little romance.   
  
The problem with that is his and Bruce's definition of romance varies greatly. Clark, raised in Smallville with good old-fashioned farm boy thinking, likes the ideas of candles and private dinners and soft music and wooing from the heart. Bruce, who has to use these tactics on many a fair, shallow lady, pretty much abhors said definition of romance.   
  
It's tacky, in his opinion, and pointless.   
  
Then again, Bruce wouldn't know real romance if it came up and clocked him across the face.   
  
He has all the pretty words when it comes to women, but what does Clark get? Gruff, one syllable statements. A glare if he's lucky. Sometimes, he even gets to sleep on the couch. Fun times really.   
  
Bruce can remember, to the thirtieth digit and beyond, the numbers of pi. He has the formulas for numerous poisons and antidotes and anything in-between all memorized. There are sheets and books worth of data stored in that amazing brain of his.   
  
Anniversary dates, on the other hand, are filed somewhere that ensure they are never remembered. Birthdays are a shot in the dark. It's enough to drive a man to do drastic things!  
  
Not that Clark would ever turn to committing an act of evil. But an act of pure deviousness? That's not entirely beyond him.   
  
So if he has to fake a distress call in Gotham City just to get his lover's attention, he knows Bruce will be too angry and mortified to tell anyone else. And Clark's certainly not going to spread the news.   
  
_That_ ought to satisfy Bruce's warped idea of romance. Saving the err, _damsel_ , in distress. Though Clark's hardly a damsel, he's rarely in distress, and he's going to have to endure several days worth of ranting in the aftermath. The prelude, however, is going to be more than worth the consequences.   
  
Now Clark sits in a dark alley and waits for his heroic Dark Knight in Kevlar armor to arrive and sweep him off his feet.   
  
At least there isn't any Kryptonite this time. Bruce really hates that.

***


	27. Normalcy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They, all three of them, have different ideas about how the world works.

Diana is a princess and Bruce is a billionaire industrialist with more money than 99.99% of the world's population. He also has issues, lots of issues, by his own admission. That doesn't detract from the fact that he's one of the top ten richest people in the entire world.   
  
Meanwhile, Clark is the son of a couple of small town farmers who know the value of good hard work, but have never seen a gala or scoop of caviar or the name Louis Vuitton in their entire lives. At least, not up close or with their own eyes. He works for a newspaper company as a news reporter and it's not exactly a grand salary. He has a modest income.   
  
They all three of them have different ideas of how the world works.   
  
Which isn't to say that Diana or Bruce both disdain the idea of hard work, but seriously? Bruce has Alfred who does everything for him, the cooking, the cleaning, the sewing of his various Batsuits, and as for regular clothing, it is tailor made and from the finest materials.   
  
Something breaks beyond fixing? No problem. Bruce can easily pay for a newer, better one. He funds more than half of the Justice League on hidden programs in Wayne Enterprise's budget alone.   
  
Diana is far too used to people listening to her. She asks for something and expects to be obeyed. Clark's still working on getting her to realize that not everyone around her is supposed to respond to her whims. Yes, she's a princess on Themyscira. Here? Not so much.   
  
Sometimes, it's enough to make Clark want to tear his hair out in frustration. Oh, he loves them both, their idiosyncrasies and all, but when it comes to extravagant presents and private suites and silk-lined undergarments, Clark feels like he's the only normal one.

 

.o.o.

  
Clark is an alien from another world given ridiculous powers because of the radiation of a yellow sun. Diana is an Amazon princess and kinda-sorta the daughter of a god, depending on who you ask.   
  
Meanwhile, Bruce cannot fly. He has no super-strength or near-invulnerability. He can't shoot laser beams from his eyeballs, see through anything (except lead) with his x-ray vision, or be capable of freezing an enemy in his tracks with the force of his breath. And no, he hasn't flown around the world so fast that he's managed to reverse time. Of course, he's also not laid low by a piece of green glowing rock.   
  
To each his own.   
  
He also doesn't have magical artifacts that enable him to deflect bullets or get the truth out of anyone with a piece of rope. Nor does he have a shiny tiara that's capable of doubling as a boomerang. Though Clark has mentioned on one occasion – and it's in his best interest that he's merely joking – that it would be amusing to see Bruce in a tiara.   
  
Instead, Bruce is smart. He's trained himself to the limits of the human body and even a bit further. He reads and studies and investigates and uses his brain, unlike the two muscle-headed supers he calls lovers. And yes, he has an array of expensive, useful, and often times life-saving objects. He calls the shadows home and uses fear to his advantage.  
  
But he's still just a human. So when he's crashing to the ground because the Batplane got shot out of the sky, or he's facing down an army of undead monsters armed with nothing but an axe, or manipulating Lex Luthor's cronies into betraying him, Bruce feels like the only one normal one in their little triad.

.o.o.

  
Diana is not a man.   
  
Bruce and Clark are two of the most empathetic and open-minded men that she has ever met, but when it comes down to it, they are still men. She loves them with all the force of her heart, but she has never forgotten this fact. To be fair, she enjoys a lot of the perks that comes with them being men, but sometimes, it can be annoying as well.   
  
They argue. A lot.   
  
Clark is stubborn, Bruce is twice as much, and neither of them listen to reason when they are toe to toe and convinced the other is wrong. They don't want to back down, and Diana knows that a certain element of machismo is to blame.   
  
She's wanted to take them by the neck and smash their heads together more than a couple of times, but she doesn't, of course, because it wouldn't hurt Clark at all and Bruce would be unconscious. Which means, in their idiotic way of conclusions, that Clark would win the argument by default, Bruce would sulk, and none of them would enjoy the next month of living because Bruce sulks better than most three year old children.   
  
To be fair, Diana can be stubborn, too. But she bends where they refuse to, and more often than not, finds herself the mediator between the two of them. And, Hera help her when it comes to discussing emotions.   
  
Bruce is offended by something Clark does (or is sometimes, it's hard to say with Bruce) and says nothing. He wanders off in a snit, hiding in his Batcave, and Diana has to play the peacemaker. Or Clark gets frustrated by Bruce taking greater risks with his safety (pot calling the kettle black, if you ask her) and disappears to his Fortress of Solitude and it's up to Diana to get the whole story because far be it for either of them to just talk about it.   
  
It's enough to drive her insane and there've been occasions she's wanted to throw her hands up in the air and go sulk in a corner herself. But she doesn't because someone's got to be the reasonable, normal one among them. And if it's got to be Diana, than so be it.

 

***


	28. Sanctuary

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Because Alfred always has the answers. And the cure for what ails you.

Her head was pounding and her blood was boiling. The latter, of course, figuratively. But the ache pulsing across her temples was quite literal.   
  
Diana sighed, elbows braced on the counter, two fingers pressed to her temples. She rubbed gently in clockwise circles as her mother had taught her, but it did not help. Perhaps because she was grinding her teeth.   
  
Through the pain, she heard the barest clink of dishware. Her nostrils flared as an aromatic scent wafted warm and humid to her nose – chamomile tea.   
  
Diana opened her eyes, looking down at a teacup and saucer, both expensive china and probably passed down in the family through generations of Waynes.   
  
“I have often found that tea is a comfort when dealing with Master Bruce,” said a familiar voice.   
  
Some of the tension drained out of Diana's body. She stopped clenching her teeth, lowering her hands and offering a thin smile.   
  
“Thank you, Alfred,” she said. “It smells wonderful.”   
  
He returned her smile with one much brighter than her own. “I assure you the taste matches the scent.”   
  
Diana lifted the cup, taking in the soothing aroma and the warmth of it, before sipping the tea. It was the perfect temperature, no doubt brewed from fresh leaf and steeped at the correct amount of time. It did, indeed, taste wonderful.  
  
“Mmm. You are right.”   
  
That was, of course, when Alfred nudged a plate of lacy, Florentine cookies toward her, barely making a noise against the tabletop.   
  
“I often serve these to Master Bruce when he is frustrated by a certain mutual acquaintance,” Alfred offered, amusement threaded through his voice.   
  
Despite her frustrations, Diana found herself laughing. “You have a cure for everything, Alfred.”   
  
“The benefit of age, Ms. Prince.”   
  
“If you're going to offer me comfort, I insist you call me Diana,” she replied, and reached for a cookie, the scent of dark chocolate irresistible. “At least in these circumstances.”   
  
“Of course.” Alfred sat down next to her with his own cup of tea. “If I might inquire?”   
  
Diana shook her head. “It's a general annoyance, no situation in particular.”  
  
“Ah, I see.” Alfred selected a cookie for himself, radiating vibes of understanding and commiseration. “All the more reason to indulge then.” He nudged the tray toward her, encouraging her to take another.   
  
Diana hardly needed the encouragement. She could already feel some of the lingering anger melt away. It was difficult to hold onto her irritation in Alfred's calming presence. No wonder the Wayne Household hadn't completely imploded.   
  
She sighed. “No offense, Alfred, but why are men such complete idiots?”   
  
His lips twitched. “None taken.” He sipped at his tea. “And I am afraid it is coded into our genetics. The Y-chromosome actually.”  
  
Diana chuckled, and a soft, relieved exhale escaped her. “Thank you,” she said.   
  
“Anytime, Diana. You are welcome here.” Alfred gestured to the kitchen around them. “This room is sanctuary. Even Master Bruce respects that.”   
  
Of course he would. “Bruce is lucky to have family like you.”   
  
Alfred patted her hand, sliding from his chair to rise from the table. “And he is very lucky to have you and Mr. Kent.” He picked up his empty teacup, taking it to the sink. “Now I must begin preparations for dinner. Any requests?”   
  
Diana took another cookie just because she could. “Anything you make will be delicious,” she said.   
  
Alfred chuckled. “Very well. Parmesan it is.”

***


	29. Friendliness is Optional

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Most of their arguments inevitably end this way -- by traumatizing their fellow leaguers. (SuperBat)

“When are you going to realize you're only human?”   
  
“Probably the day you remember you're not entirely invulnerable!”   
  
Superman's eyebrow twitches, the only betrayal of his building anger, other than the rising volume of his voice. “We're not talking about me!”   
  
“We should,” Batman all but snarls, sliding to the right, continuing the endless prowl as he and Superman circle each other, like enemies about to come to blows. “You and your stubborn, reckless, foolish--”  
  
“Oh yes. Insults.” Superman rolls his eyes, a childish retort in every way. “That's the way this always goes. Pretty soon you'll start in on how it's always my fault.”   
  
Batman snorts. “Not always. Sometimes it's Flash.”   
  
“Hey!” Flash retorts in the background, standing on the sidelines with the rest of the Justice League as they watch this recurring spectacle. None of them think to interfere.   
  
Who would dare get in between the Man of Steel and the Dark Knight when they're in a mood like this? J'onn perhaps. But he's not here right now.   
  
“But mostly, yes. It's you,” Batman continues, ignoring Flash's brief, offended protest. “The pigheaded Boy Scout who can't follow a plan because his brain is muscle instead of rational thought.”   
  
Superman throws his hands up in the air. “This coming from the uptight shut in who can't bother to be friendly to his own team much less us.”   
  
“We're not friends. We are, for lack of a better term, coworkers. Friendliness is optional.”   
  
“But appreciated!” Nearly a snarl from Superman, who's usually so calm no matter what vitriol Batman tosses his direction.   
  
Silence sweeps through the meeting hall.  
  
Batman, rigid in his own outrage, suddenly whirls on a heel. “I don't have time to waste on another argument with you.”   
  
In a blur of blue and red, Superman grabs Batman's arm at the elbow. It doesn't take a genius to guess what Batman's response to that would be.   
  
He shifts his weight and turns with a fist, aiming for Superman's head. The boy in blue ducks the punch with a skilled weave, and parries the steel-toed kick that follows. Superman tugs, brings Batman off balance, and in the second it takes for Batman to recover, Superman shoves him backward, slamming him against a wall.   
  
Batman throws himself forward, a fist following, but Superman dodges again, grabs Batman's free hand and pins both to the wall with a resounding thud. The World's Finest superheroes glare at each other, chests heaving with emotion and brief exertion, before their lips collide in a kiss that's more attack than affection.   
  
In the background, Diana sighs.   
  
Flash laughs and rubs the back of his head. “There they go again,” he says, and turns to leave. He doesn't plan to bear witness again.   


Playing unwilling voyeur the first time had been enough mentally scarring material for him. 

***


	30. When You're Gone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maybe the world doesn't need a Superman, but Batman wouldn't mind having him around once in a while. (Nolan-verse, Superman Returns)

The world somehow seems colder, emptier. Lonelier. Crime is at an all-time high, making Batman wonder if he's even doing any good. _What about escalation_ , Gordan had asked. And now, Batman wonders if he may have a point. But doing nothing? That was never an option.   
  
The criminals are getting smarter, more numerous, spreading their felonious behavior across the globe. To the point where Batman is reconsidering Superman's offhand mention of a league of some sort, a collaboration of superheroes to send aid where it's needed the most.   
  
Then again, they wouldn't be having all of these problems if Superman hadn't vanished, discarding everyone and everything. Only Batman knows the reasons why but that doesn't make it feel any less like abandonment. He doesn't need Superman. Not at all.   
  
But he does – did – enjoy having the annoyingly optimistic Blue Scout around once in a while. If only to have someone to practice witty retorts on. If only to feel like he's not alone for a few minutes everyday, that he's not fighting a losing battle.   
  
Sure he's annoying in every way that matters. Sure he's a thick-headed optimistic fool, dancing a pointless dance of one-sided affection with that reporter. But he's also the world's greatest hope – much to Batman's annoyance.   
  
Superman is gone. Nothing can change that. He's not coming back.   
  
Batman can't keep watching the stars at night, waiting for a blue and red speck to descend from the black expanse. Maybe Lois has it right. Maybe the world doesn't need Superman.   
  
But right now, Batman wouldn't mind having him around. 

*** 


	31. Date Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It wasn't easy when each of them had their own idea about how romance works. (SuperWonderBat)

Clark didn't know which was worse: that Date Night had been Wally's idea or that Bruce treated it with the same in-depth, tactical planning that he did all of their Justice League assignments.   
  
For the dark knight of Gotham, spontaneity was clearly a lost art. Not just a lost art but one that was dead, buried beneath layers and layers of paranoid, anal-retentive, self-sacrifice.   
  
It was adorable. Annoying, but adorable.   
  
Especially since Diana disdained the very idea of Date Night at all.   
  
They had much better things to do, she argued. Why did they need to go out for dinner and a movie when Wayne Manor had a perfectly stocked kitchen and a nice, private theater.   
  
She kind of had a point.  
  
But, no. Now that the idea had been planted in his head, Bruce had a mission. And if there was one thing Bruce did not do, it was complete any project halfway or accept defeat.   
  
It was going to be a date they'd never forget, Bruce vowed. It would be perfect!  
  
This was all Wally's fault.   
  
“Chin up, big guy,” Wally said with a grin as they watched Bruce clack-clack his way to one epic night. “In a history of obsessions for him, this one's rather tame. And safe.”   
  
Clark sighed, rubbing his forehead. “That's not really comforting.”   
  
Wally waggled his eyebrows. “Wait until you see what Diana's planning. Maybe that will cheer you up.”   
  
Clark groaned, imagination providing him with several possibilities, all designed to either challenge or embarrass him. Probably both.   
  
“I hear it has something to do with strawberries,” Wally mock-whispered.   
  
Sometimes, Clark wished he could turn invisible. Or better yet, go back in time. Then he would have never heard Wally say that.   
  
“A limo will arrive at six,” Bruce announced, still clack-clacking away. “I expect you to be properly attired, Kent.” He only used that tone when he expected to be obeyed.   
  
Wally snickered.   
  
Clark resigned himself to his fate.   
  
But next time, it would be his turn. He'd see to that. Or he wasn't the Man of Steel!  
  
“Wear the purple tie,” Bruce added and he half-turned away from his computer to give Clark the Eye. “You know which one I mean.”   
  
Oh, yes. He knew. Clark's scowl morphed into a grin.   
  
“Whatever you say,” Clark agreed and turned away with a bit more bounce in his step, ignoring Wally's outright laughter. Flash would get it later.   
  
Man of Steel he was, all right. And apparently one with a will of melted cheese. But when it came to his lovers, there wasn't much Clark wouldn't do.

***


	32. Willful Ignorance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Batman plays loose with his convictions, and makes a promise to himself he knows he'll break. (BatmanxPoison Ivy)

Every move is a calculation. It is a rare occasion that he has to react on instinct, though he has trained that to respond as well. There is always a plan, a knowledge running in the back of his mind. There are few that can take him by surprise.   
  
What is this weakness he seems to carry for the female members of Gotham's supervillain underground?  
  
In the shadows of the botanical gardens, every step is one step closer to her domain. From the moment he sets foot on the path, he knows he is under her surveillance. He keeps to the dark, but the plants don't need eyes. They can trace his footsteps.   
  
He, too, knows they are there. He knows they are watching. She is watching.   
  
There is an antidote in his belt, carefully concocted to adapt to whatever new blend of plant toxins Ivy has constructed this time. He reminds himself of his presence only to be reassured that is there. Whether he has any intention of using it is a different matter.   
  
It depends entirely on which blend paints the supervillainess's lips this time around. Poison or seduction? The choice is hers.   
  
There is a rustle of leaves not caused by the wind. Batman's hackles raise and he's sure an attack is imminent. Ivy is not the sort to directly take a swing at him. No, her efforts are always more subtle.   
  
Which will it be, the poison or the seduction?  
  
Every move is a calculation, even the half-step into the light that makes him briefly visible. He hears the slither of vines, sees them twitch from the corner of his eyes, and leaps to avoid their attack, to the left.   
  
They strike from the right, however, as he suspected, and his limbs are immediately entangled in the thick, ropey tendrils. More genetic manipulation, he assumes, as the vines are thicker around than his own arms, smelling strongly of pine and pea-blossom.  
  
He is jerked up, off his boots, until he is dangling a good five feet off the ground. Adrenaline pumps through his body, anticipation of different flavors coursing through him. A growl rumbles in his chest as familiar laughter rings through the night.   
  
“You fall for that every time,” Poison Ivy murmurs, stepping into the moonlight, one hand rising to stroke the quivering leaves of one of her vines.   
  
It will only take a twitch of his fingers to draw a batarang, but he holds off for now. The question remains, the one he cannot answer, poison or seduction?   
  
“I knew if I made threats against Gordon you'd come running,” Ivy continues, stepping onto a broader vine which lifts her upward, until they are eye to eye with only inches of free space between them. “And even faster than I'd imagined.”   
  
“Is this another doomed attempt to kill me?” Batman says, the words grating from his throat.   
  
Ivy laughs, leaning closer to him, her sweet perfume invading his nose. “Killing you would take all the fun out of it.” Her tongue slides across her lips, wetting them, highlighting the bright-red shade. The color tells him nothing.   
  
“Then this is another game,” Batman says.   
  
She leans against him, one hand braced on his shoulder, barely tangible thanks to the weight of the Kevlar. “You can call it that if you want,” Ivy purrs. “Which means it is time to up the stakes.”   
  
Her exhales puff against his jaw, her cheek sliding against his, and then her lips land on his own. Her perfume is intoxicating, and his lips part, allowing her tongue to slip inside, as sweet as her scent. His lips tingle and flush with heat, a heat that spreads from his mouth to the rest of the body.   
  
Ah. Seduction it is.   
  
The batarang slips back into its hiding place for now. One last time, he promises himself. One last time. 

***


	33. Fly With Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clark takes Bruce into the sky for the first time. (Smallville AU)

“I can.”   
  
Bruce stares at him, at the unwavering way Clark stares right back, certain and unrepentant. “Impossible.”   
  
Clark grins at him, all sparkling eyes and big, white teeth. “Watch me.”   
  
Against all odds, eyes growing rounder and rounder, Bruce watches as Clark somehow manages to rise into the air, hovering no less than five feet above the ground. No wires, no equipment of any kind. He does a backflip, midair, just to prove his words further.   
  
For the first time in his life, Bruce feels his jaw literally drop. He stares, circles around his hovering eventual-lover, and he can't find the words. They've all escaped him.   
  
“I--”  
  
“Fly with me.”   
  
His gaze snaps up to Clark's, meeting amused blue eyes. “... What?”   
  
“Come on, Bruce.” Clark lowers himself down a foot or two, and holds out his hand to Bruce, fingers waggling in invitation. “Let me show you the world.”  
  
Despite himself, Bruce breaks out into laughter. “That is unbelievably corny – hey!”   
  
Clark snatches his hand, dragging him up into warm arms that had never seemed too capable of carrying a full-grown man's weight before. Bruce shames himself by clutching onto Clark at first, looking down at the ground more than thirty feet below them, and climbing.   
  
It's at once terrifying and exhilarating. It's a young summer day, the sun hot and unrelenting, but with the wind rushing past them, it seems so much colder. The ground below is a blur of color, the sky above a wash of blue, blue and more blue. Bruce's heart is thumping like mad within his chest, his grip on on Clark's shoulder and around his waist nearly white-knuckled.   
  
He trusts Clark not to drop him, yet the wariness remains. They move so quickly everything is a blur, which is safer in the long run, from sharp eyes detecting them, but still...   
  
“You're incredible,” Bruce says, the wind taking his voice and carrying it away, but Clark somehow hears him nonetheless.   
  
Clark's arms tighten around him, speed slowing as he pauses over an old water tower, lowering them to the top of it. “I'm not human,” he replies, and there's an old ache in his words, an old wound that has yet to heal.   
  
“So?” Bruce wobbles a bit on the curved metal, his legs shaky, but Clark's grip is steadying.   
  
“Doesn't that bother you?”   
  
Bruce lifts his shoulders and drops them, looking out toward the horizon. “Being human is overrated.”   
  
“Easy for you to say.”   
  
Bruce's lips curl upward. “The grass is always greener.”   
  
Clark chuckles lightly, his chin resting on Bruce's shoulder. “One of Alfred's sayings?”   
  
“He is full of them, isn't he?” Bruce pauses, reconsiders. “I'm not angry, by the way.” That, Clark had expressed before claiming he could fly, had been the main reason he'd not spoken sooner. Well, and the fear of becoming a government experiment.   
  
Clark makes a noncommittal noise in his throat. “I knew you could be reasonable.”   
  
Bruce reaches down, pinches the arm wrapped around his waist. “Brat. Now take me flying again.”   
  
“If you insist,” Clark replies and swoops upward, taking Bruce with him. 

*** 


	34. Bad Ideas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anger the Bruce and hell hath no fury like a Bat scorned. Unless, of course, one should infuriate the princess of the Amazons.

Clark always thought that Bruce had the monopoly on cold shoulders. No one could do chilly receptions like Bruce Wayne. No one had perfected that air of dismissal. No one could sulk like Bruce could sulk.   
  
He was wrong.   
  
When it came to affront, Diana was the cream of the crop. Apparently, no one gave off a glacial vibe better than an Amazon princess. Even Bruce was a little ruffled, which was a testament to itself. Nothing ruffled Batman. Except, apparently, their lover in a fit of disdained pique.   
  
Now would be the perfect time for an 'I told you so' except then Clark would be faced with two furious lovers rather than one. It would be better to present a unified front. Besides, Diana might have the best disregarding air, but she was easier to placate. Anger the Bruce and hell hath no fury like a Bat scorned.   
  
Especially since Bruce, being Bruce, was completely flummoxed.   
  
“Flowers?” he suggested, pacing back and forth across the floor. They were in the master bedroom at Wayne Manor, a room larger than Clark's entire apartment though he tried not to think about that too much.   
  
Bruce was business casual, suit jacket gone, tie loosened, sleeves rolled up. He paced back and forth, arms folded behind his back, mouth drawn in a tight furrow.   
  
“Chocolates?” Bruce debated aloud. “Surprise trip to the Carribean? Fur jacket? Jewelry?”   
  
Smartest man in the world, except perhaps for Mr. Terrific, and Bruce was still a moron sometimes. He could analyze until the day turned blue. He could outthink any criminal and outsmart Lex Luthor in every encounter, and Lex wasn't exactly a moron. But when ti came to common sense, to daily and real human interaction, Bruce could be an idiot.   
  
Clark leaned back, crossing his ankles and bracing his weight on the mattress behind him. “We could start with an apology,” he suggested.   
  
The look Bruce gave him could have rivaled Clark's heat vision. “An apology,” he repeated flatly.   
  
“Yes.” It took all of Clark's will not to grin. “Start with 'I'm sorry' and then follow that up with 'I won't do it again'. Works wonders. It helps if you're sincere about it.”   
  
“Why wouldn't I be sincere?” Bruce demanded.   
  
“It was your idea in the first place,” Clark pointed out. “Don't yell at me because it backfired.”   
  
Bruce's eyes narrowed.   
  
Clark's insides twisted. Hmm. In some worlds, that could be called an 'I told you so,' wouldn't it?   
  
Judging by the way Bruce's hackles were rising, Clark had just screwed up. Damn.   
  
He sighed and sagged on the bed, watching Bruce bristle. Now he had two lovers to placate. Just the situation he was trying to avoid.   
  
Sometimes, not even being Superman could save him. 

***


	35. Toxic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It is only a matter of time before Batman becomes hers. (BatmanxPoison Ivy, Batman the Animated Series)

She applies her makeup with absolute precision. Her clothes are donned on with the same level of attention to detail, not a thread out of place. Her hair is neatly styled, flowing over her shoulders in a crimson wave.   
  
Last to be applied is her lipstick, decorating her lips in a lurid splash of seductive scarlet, glistening in the flickering fluorescent light above. She smirks, blowing a kiss to the mirror, knowing that it is not just the venom that makes her irresistible.   
  
She has a date that she simply cannot miss. And she must look her best.   
  
She sets her trap, ready to counter all the tips and tricks her adversary and potential mate are known to utilize. The ropes are thickly woven vines, impervious to sharp edges, as are the nets. The flowers are intelligent, capable of reacting without her strict orders. There's a fan, to remove unwanted aerosol compounds or soporific gas or concealing mist. The walls and ceilings are smooth, without protrusions for a hook or grapple.   
  
It is a perfect trap.   
  
She tends to her garden, to her precious hybrids, and waits for his calling card. This is no mere man, or mere mortal. He is neither alien nor partial god. He is an individual without definition, masculine by gender, but certainly no man.   
  
Small wonder that she finds herself enraptured.   
  
And she waits for her potential mate, for the father of her most perfect creations. Because while she loathes man, she has plenty of room to use an individual more myth than man. Imagine the power. Imagine the strength. Imagine the intelligence!   
  
Surely, their spawn could rule the world, dispose of the native human population, giving rise to a veritable army of plantkind.   
  
She shivers at the thought, skin flush with excitement and arousal, lips glistening with poison.   
  
All she has to do is wait. She can hear the sirens in the distance, the police responding with pointless force. They have yet to learn how weak they are. They are nothing compared to the might of her children.   
  
And to the skill of her future mate.   
  
They know this, of course. It is why the night sky has been lit with his signal, begging for his help, to save them from the evil temptress who has taken over the botanical gardens.   
  
She smiles at the first shadow, the first sign of his arrival.   
  
_He comes_ , her children whisper to her, an advanced guard of ivy stretching around the outside of the building, pretending quiescence.   
  
She reaches out, stroking the quivering leaf of her favorite child.   
  
It is only a matter of time now, before he becomes hers. 

***


	36. Not Alone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's called the Fortress of Solitude for a reason. Diana must not have gotten that memo. (SuperWonderBat)

If it was up to Bruce, he'd still be in the Batcave as he was supposed to be, watching over his city.   
  
Unfortunately, Diana had never learned or been taught how to take no for an answer.   
  
All of Bruce's logical arguments had been ignored. All of Batman's reasoned statements were given the same regard.   
  
Sometimes, a man just wanted to be alone, Bruce had said.   
  
Not this time, Diana had insisted, fingers locked around his cape and threatening to tear the reinforced fabric.   
  
It's called the Fortress of Solitude, Bruce had reminded her. There's a reason for that.   
  
We have a long-standing invitation, Diana had declared. Besides, not everyone prefers to brood in silent isolation.   
  
That doesn't give us the right to barge in unwelcome! Bruce had all but huffed, trying not to be offended and failing.   
  
Diana had glared.   
  
An hour later, Bruce was strapped into Diana's jet, on their way to the Arctic. All of his objections had been overruled. He had no choice.   
  
It wasn't that Bruce didn't want to be there for Clark. They were partners and lovers and everything in between. He simply wanted to offer Clark the privacy he felt he needed.   
  
Diana was the one with other ideas.   
  
“Don't expect him to be happy to see us,” he muttered.   
  
“I fully expect he'll be sulking,” Diana replied, her cheerful tone at odds with the way she gripped the throttle. “Much like you are now.”   
  
Bruce didn't dignify that with a retort.   
  
They landed, none of the Fortress' defenses rising to greet them, prompting a smug look on Diana's part. Bruce ignored her. The lack of challenge only meant they were still recognized as allowed visitors.   
  
It did not meant Clark wanted to see them.   
  
“Clark?”   
  
Bruce followed Diana as they moved through the many rooms and corridors of the Fortress. In many ways, it resembled the Batcave with all of the memorabilia.  
  
They found Clark where Bruce expected him to be, staring up at the statue of his parents. He'd removed his cape, but nothing else.   
  
He didn't turn to greet them.   
  
Diana sighed. “There you are,” she said and Bruce was content to let her take the lead.   
  
“Here I am,” Clark answered.   
  
“You haven't been answering our calls,” Diana continued, daring to approach Clark. “We were worried.”   
  
“We?” Clark repeated and he half-turned, gaze flicking to Bruce, who was finding comfort in the shadows.   
  
Sometimes, Clark had these moments. They were few and far between, but it was like his Kryptonian heritage clashed with his Earth sensibilities and something went cross-wired in his brain. If he carried guns, Bruce would call it an 'itchy trigger finger'.   
  
Hopefully, this wouldn't be one of those times. But Bruce had not survived as a crimefighter this long by being unprepared.   
  
“Yes, we,” Diana said, unperturbed and of course she would be. She was an Amazonian princess, half-god, and nearly as invincible as Clark.   
  
“I'm fine,” Clark said, his tone far from matching his claim. “I don't want any company right now.” That, at least, rung as truth.   
  
“The last thing you should be is alone,” Diana insisted, shooting Bruce a look that demanded his cooperation. Or else.   
  
He sighed to himself. “It wasn't your fault,” Bruce said. “There's nothing you could have done.” This, too, was the truth, but it when it came down to it, Bruce wasn't sure who had more capacity for self-blame: himself or Clark. At least he admitted it.   
  
“I should have done more,” Clark insisted, his words taking on a sharp edge, his hands curling into fists. The tense lines of his back were a testament to his agitation.   
  
“You are powerful,” Diana said, her soothing tone a magical ability into itself as she drew even closer, unafraid. “But you are not a god. We do our best, try our hardest, and never give up. That is all we can do.” She placed her hand on his shoulder. That he didn't shrug her off was a good sign.   
  
Bruce dared approach, stepping out of the shadows, offering his pragmatism in counter to Diana's optimism, knowing that Clark appreciated both. It was not unlike the tug he felt between his Earth heritage's human emotion and the Kryptonian scientific rationale.   
  
“You're not alone,” he said, feeling the weight of the shadow of Clark's parents over them. He could related. He had the massive painting in Wayne Manor; Clark had his statue. “And if I remember correctly, you're the one who taught me that.”   
  
Clark's head dipped. He exhaled audibly. His hands unclenched from their firsts. “Only you would turn my own words against me, Bruce.”   
  
“It's a special talent I have,” Bruce said wryly.   
  
“Among many others,” Diana said and squeezed Clark's shoulder, pressing against his side in comfort. “I know you want to be alone, but will you let us be alone with you?”   
  
“That doesn't make any sense, Diana,” Bruce said, but he allowed himself to step fully out of the shadows, discreetly tucking away his sliver of Kryptonite.   
  
“It's not supposed to.”   
  
Clark shook his head. “Why is it that Bruce is allowed to sulk but I am not?”   
  
“For Bruce, it's a natural state of being,” Diana teased, tossing a wink Bruce's direction.   
  
Bruce glowered. “I take exception to that.”   
  
“It's only offensive because it's true,” she retorted with obvious amusement.   
  
“I do not sulk. Or brood for that matter!” Bruce argued and noticed, to his relief, a smile growing on Clark's face.   
  
If familiar banter was all it took, then Bruce would continue.   
  
And maybe he would consider conceding that Diana had been right.   
  
Maybe. 

***


	37. Child's Play

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Clark Kent, Bruce Wayne, Alfred  
> Rating: K+  
> Warnings: None   
> Description: Alfred shares a story, Clark is fascinated, and Bruce is grumpy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to mistress_pirate for the initial prompt!

“What we didn't realize was that the sun flares were messing with my abilities. So when Pa asked me to pick up the tractor, I ended up tossing it way into the air. It crashed several miles away, in the middle of Mr. Tate's cornfield.” Clark laughed, eyes sparkling as he remembered the incident.   
  
Bruce shook his head, his own lips quirking. “I imagine you were quite the handful as a child, powers or no powers.”   
  
Clark shrugged his shoulders, flipping through another page in the book. “And you were the epitome of good behavior?”   
  
“As a matter of fact, I was,” Bruce replied. The paperwork on his desk, all very important, was getting little of his attention. As was often the case when Clark came to call.   
  
On the other side of his office, Alfred made a noise that better resembled a scoff.   
  
“Hush you,” Bruce directed at his butler even as Clark took that small noise as an invitation to be nosy. Just like a reporter.   
  
“Oh, really?” Clark's book snapped shut as he carelessly pushed it back onto the shelf, upside down and out of order.   
  
“Master Bruce could be quite the devil when he put his mind to it,” Alfred said, pretending full interest in his dusting and heedless of the glare Bruce directed between his shoulderblades. “I occasionally encouraged said behavior in light of the circumstances, but even before then, he was mischievous to his core.”   
  
Clark bounced on the balls of his feet. “Care to share?”   
  
“No, he doesn't,” Bruce said, adding a scowl for full effect.   
  
“I wasn't asking you,” Clark retorted. “Inquiring minds must know, Alfred.”   
  
Alfred laughed, duster swishing over the book spines in pretend nonchalance. “Then allow me to tell you--”  
  
“ _Alfred_.”   
  
Only then did Alfred turn to look at him, expression reserved but laughter dancing in his eyes. “Master Bruce, what am I here for if not to embarrass you before your significant other?”   
  
Clark was hardly significant. But that wasn't the point.   
  
“It's unacceptable,” Bruce declared.   
  
Alfred, however, was having none of it. He looked Bruce right in the eye and arched a single eyebrow as though in challenge.   
  
“As I was saying,” Alfred continued, returning to his dusting. “When Master Bruce was a toddler, he devised quite the clever ladder out of toys, books, and other oddities to get to his favorite vitamins on a top shelf. By the time we realized he'd risen from his nap to construct this ladder, he'd consumed more than half the bottle despite the childproof cap.”   
Clark's eyes rounded. “Oh, dear.”   
  
“Quite.” Alfred nodded and continued, despite Bruce's vocal harrumph and pointed return to his paperwork. “Mister Wayne was distraught but Mrs. Wayne was cool as you please as she summoned the ipecac, a bucket, and a car for the hospital. I must admit, I was dreadfully concerned myself and of little help.”   
  
“I don't remember this,” Bruce said.   
  
“You were young.” Alfred gave him a fond smile. “But to this day, I cannot get him to touch a vitamin. They must be crushed, the taste buried in some other food.”   
  
Bruce felt his face redden, though that explained his random revulsion for all things vitamin, whether they were children's chewables or large, nearly unswallowable adult ones.   
  
“Somehow, I'm not surprised,” Clark said, leaning back against the bookshelf with a wink Bruce's direction. “What else?”   
  
“Well,” and now Alfred's tone turned mischievous, the traitor. “There was the time Master Bruce attempted to make breakfast.”   
  
Bruce, betrayed, ignored them both and buried his attention in his paperwork. Clark was going to pay for this later, he vowed. For he would make a call to Ma Kent and she, he was certain, would be completely willing to return the favor.   
  
Yes, revenge would be sweet indeed.

***  
  



	38. Ugly Sweater

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Characters: Bruce Wayne, Clark Kent, Dick Grayson, Connor Kent, Alfred Pennyworth, Martha Kent, Jonathon Kent  
> Rating: K+  
> Warnings: Fluff?   
> Description: Bruce tries to resist some holiday cheer. 
> 
> Special thanks to mistress_pirate and her prompt of “old-fashioned country Christmas”

Bruce has more dignity than to tug on his collar like an impatient child. But he still has to stop himself mid-reach. Bad enough that the sweater is a hideous conglomeration of color but it also itches. Right now, there's no such thing as mind over matter. He's convinced his sweater has been woven from sandpaper.   
  
Of course, Clark is having no trouble in his equally revolting sweater. He wears it with pride, sewn-in bells jingling with every motion.   
  
Nearby, Dick is having an animated conversation with Connor, both boys clutching mugs of egg nog sans the rum. Their sweaters flash in eerie unison, Dick in Rudolph and Connor as Frosty. Bruce doesn't know what they are discussing but it makes Dick laugh and Connor lose that pinched, angry expression he often wears.   
  
Mrs. Kent – call me Martha – and Alfred are debating the merits of nutmeg in another corner with the former trying to foist another slice of pie onto the later. Alfred resists, unwilling to admit who might have the better recipe.   
  
Mr. Kent steadies himself on a step stool, adding the last of the ornaments to an already cluttered tree. Clark watches, offering advice but little help, busy as he is with his own egg nog.   
  
Outside, Smallville is experiencing a rare white Christmas. There's enough snow that no one's going anywhere tomorrow without a snow shovel or Superman.   
  
The radio on the mantle is tuned to the local station, one playing non-stop holiday music. Right now, Brenda Lee is _Rockin Around the Christmas Tree_ and Clark has that look in his eyes. The one that suggests he's going to try and get Bruce to dance and he won't take no for an answer.   
  
It's Christmas Eve but that doesn't mean criminals are taking a holiday. Someone, somewhere is breaking the law. And Bruce is here, trying not to tug on a scratchy holiday sweater. He wonders if anyone would notice him slipping out the back...  
  
“Yes, we would.”   
  
Bruce narrows his eyes and feigns interest in his hot cocoa. “What are you talking about?”   
  
Clark edges into the periphery of his personal space as though approaching an armed nuclear device, nearly the only time Bruce has seen him take caution. “You're thinking of sneaking out. And yes, we'd notice and be disappointed.”   
  
Bruce stares at the happy mini-marshmallows floating in his cup. “I have work to do.”   
  
“More important than this?”   
  
He sighs, Clark's earnest tone an effective guilt trip. He looks again, at Dick smiling and Alfred laughing, and has to grudgingly concede that Clark has a point.   
  
He may even – Bruce grits his teeth – be right.   
  
The low growl he makes is as much assent as Clark is going to get.   
  
Clark grins and leans closer, his lips brushing Bruce's ear. “I'll even promise to help take off that sweater later. Deal?”   
  
Damn manipulative Boy Scouts.  
  
“Deal,” Bruce mutters and resigns himself to joining the holiday cheer.   
  
Just this once.

***


	39. Vacation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Apokolips hath no fury like a Bat kept from his cave.

There is nothing quite so difficult as a sulking Bruce Wayne. Because when Bruce is Displeased with you, you know it. There's no confusion. There's no subtlety.   
  
And right now? Bruce is Displeased.   
  
The silence in the back of the car almost has a weight of its own. Oh, Bruce had finally agreed to come with Clark on a vacation, but that didn't mean he is going to do so gracefully.   
  
Clark sighs and loosens his tie. He's already removed his suit jacket and rolled up his sleeves. As far as he's concerned, his vacation started the moment he put his bags into the trunk of the car.   
  
“Could you at least try and look like I'm not torturing you?”   
  
Bruce flips the next page in his magazine as though it's a criminal trying and failing to get a hit in on Batman. “I could,” he says. And then lets it end there.   
  
This is going to be harder than he thought. Clark raps his fingers on his knees.   
  
“It's only for a weekend,” he says. “Gotham will not fall apart without you. And you left Dick in charge with plenty of backup.” Hell, Clark had even asked Connor to stick around the city for a while and Diana already said she planned to be 'around'. “There's nothing to worry about.”   
  
Bruce snorts and flips another page. Clark has never seen such fierce page-turning in his life. Except, maybe, for that time he forgot Lois' birthday and she wasn't consoled by anything he brought her. Woman could hold a grudge like no one he ever met. Until Bruce, that is.   
  
“Don't you think you deserve a vacation?”   
  
Bruce, at last, lifts his eyes from the glossy magazine pages and looks at Clark. “Bruce Wayne takes vacations all the time.”   
  
And there he goes again, talking about himself in third person as though Bruce Wayne is the construct and not the other way around. Clark resists the urge to sigh. Instead, he pinches the bridge of his nose.   
  
“And Batman can't?”   
  
“Crime doesn't take vacations.”   
  
Seriously?   
  
Clark peers from behind his fingers to stare at his lover. Bruce is looking back at him, completely even. But is that a twitch at the corner of his mouth? Has Bruce been... teasing him?  
  
Clark sits back and narrows his eyes. “You _are_ looking forward to this, aren't you?”   
  
“No.” But Bruce hides behind his magazine. “But as you said, this is only for the weekend and I can pretend. For your sake.”   
  
“For my sake?”   
  
“Isn't that what I said?”   
  
Yes. He's definitely hiding a smile. Clark shakes his head and fights down the urge to vent his irritation. It's all part and parcel to loving Bruce Wayne, he thinks.   
  
“You,” Clark says, folding his arms across his chest, “are one frustrating individual, Bruce.”   
  
Bruce rattles his magazine as he lowers it, full on smirking. “You should have realized that by now, Kent.”   
  
Game. Set. Match.

***


	40. Interview

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You are cordially invited to interview with a select group of individuals of whom you share an interest.

The envelope is sitting on his hall table, mixed in with a stack of mail he'd left there the day before. It hadn't come in the mail, however, and Clark only notices it because the envelope is such a dark grey and sealed with a very familiar symbol. One that has become synonymous with bad news for the criminal element of Gotham City.   
  
However, since Clark is in Metropolis and not a criminal, what it means for him is a curiosity that has both his reporter's instincts and his hero's instincts standing up to say hello.   
  
He ignores the bills and junk mail, tugging the envelope out of the stack. He examines it from all angles as he starts down the hallway toward his kitchen, half-heartedly tugging at his tie.   
  
The envelope is innocuous. It has his name written on the front in a tight, no-nonsense script. A quick x-ray reveals no potentially deadly or incendiary substances within it. Not that the envelope is thick enough to conceal anything worrisome. Not that it could contain anything that might harm him.   
  
Unless somehow the Batman has learned that Clark Kent is Superman and that Superman is susceptible to Kryptonite, a rather rare substance for Earth.   
  
He wanders into the kitchen and slips a finger under the flap, opening it. A single piece of card stock paper slips into his hand. At the top it says “I KNOW WHO YOU ARE” which is a rather rude and abrupt declaration. But at the bottom, it adds, “You are cordially invited to interview with a select gathering of individuals of whom you share an interest.” It then gives a date, time, and address. It's signed with the symbol for The Batman.   
  
Hmmm.   
  
Well, that answers that.   
  
The real question is: does he go? Which is actually a stupid question because the answer is: of course! Not only because the Batman is elusive and impossible to find, but because he's curious. What could the Batman possibly want? And what did he mean by “a select gathering of individuals?”  
  
Clark supposes he'll have to find out.   
  
At sunset, three days after he received the letter, Clark puts on his suit and takes off toward Gotham, heading for the Observatory. It is the tallest building in Gotham City and owned by the Wayne Foundation. It seems like an odd place to meet, but who is Superman to question the Batman's thought processes? He doesn't know the man at all. And sometimes, is hard-pressed to call him a superhero.   
  
He looks down as he approaches, seeing a red blur streaking across the ground, and blinks in surprise. The Flash, too? Interesting.   
  
Superman lands on the balcony of the Observatory and the door leading inward is already open for him. He can hear voices within, one of them obviously the Batman judging by the distorted nature of his vocals, and he recognizes Diana's and J'onn's voices. The Batman has been busy.   
  
He lets himself in through the open doorway, stepping into a receiving room of sorts. A quick look around identifies half a dozen of Earth's most familiar costumed superheroes. The Flash. Wonder Woman. The Martian Manhunter. Green Lantern. And last but certainly not least, The Batman.   
  
All conversation ceases as they all turn to look at them. And then Flash appears at his side with a grin and playful punch to his shoulder. They, at least, have met while Superman only knows of the others by their reputation.   
  
“About time!” he says with a wince, shaking his hand. “For a man who's faster than a speeding bullet, you're the last to get here.”   
  
Superman blinks. “I'm on time.” He glances up at the clock on the wall. “For a matter of fact, I'm early.” And arriving here only a minute behind the Flash is hardly late.   
  
“Superman is right,” A voice interjects, smooth and silky as its owner slinks toward them like a pool of shadows. “He is precisely on time for his interview.”   
  
Flash rolls his shoulders. “To be fair, everyone is slow to me.” He grins and then his eyes brighten. “Diana! My favorite Amazon!” He throws his arms out wide in glee and takes off in a, well, a flash.   
  
“Interview,” Superman repeats in Flash's absence, resisting the urge to shiver at The Batman's proximity. Now that he is close, he can see that the Batman's costume isn't purely black, but also shades of grey. “For what exactly?”  
  
The Batman gestures to the balcony, beyond the range of the other heroes talking amongst themselves nearby. “To join an elite group of individuals who will be tasked with protecting this planet.”   
  
Try as he might, Superman can not see through The Batman's mask. He has no idea of this man's identity, though he had sussed out Superman's. Then again, Superman's disguise relied on people making assumptions about him on a personal level. He supposes a pair of glasses and a bumbling personality wouldn't fool The Batman.   
  
To be fair, if it wasn't for him actively trying to prove otherwise to Lois, she probably would have figured it out a lot sooner, too.   
  
“Are you trying to form some kind of superhero squad or something?” Superman asks as they emerge onto the balcony, sunset dipping fast toward night.   
  
A cross between a scoff and a laugh emerges from the man next to him. “More like a network of talents. Between you and J'onn, it is startlingly clear that there are greater dangers than what exists on this planet alone. And there's no guarantee that any of us, on our own, can be an effective defense against said dangers.”   
  
Superman crosses his arms. “So it's like a telephone tree?”  
  
The Batman looks at him for a long moment and then his mouth crooks upward in something like a grin. “Yes, country boy. It's like a tree. Where we can call upon each other should we need some... assistance.”   
  
He says the latter, Superman notices, with evident distaste. As though the very idea of calling for help is unpalatable to him. Then why bother arranging this? Unless he's doing it for everyone else's benefit.   
  
“Alright. Sure. Sounds good to me.” Superman lowers his arms and grins, sticking out a hand. “Count me in.”   
  
The Batman's lens covered gaze flicks to the offered hand as though giving it a long debate before he offers one of his own, the handshake firm and business-like. “Alright. Then we can get started.”   
  
“Started?”   
  
“You didn't think a handshake was all it took, did you?” The Batman tilts his head, his smirk widening as the handshake ends. “You still have an interview to pass.”   
  
Superman blinks. “But I'm Superman.”   
  
“Your point?”   
  
He opens his mouth but no words emerge. What other explanation does he need? He's Superman. He saves people on an hourly basis? What further qualification could he possibly be lacking?  
  
“I'm... Superman?”   
  
“You said that already.” The Batman sounds as smug as a man can possibly sound. “Do you have anything else to offer?”   
  
Superman splutters.

***


	41. Water Balloons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Title: Water Balloons  
> Characters: Wally West, Bruce Wayne  
> Rating: T  
> Warnings: a kiss   
> Description: Bruce called it combat training. Wally called it fun and games.

Bruce called it combat training.   
  
Wally was pretty sure that it was really just fun and games, but Bruce had to dress it up in another name to make himself feel better about it. Whatever. Wally was just happy to see Bruce laughing, soaked in sweat and water, his dark clothes clinging to his body...  
  
Dangerous thoughts there. Hold on, Wally. Hold on.   
  
He ducked down behind a hedge, juggling his two pieces of ammo. Bright blue and green, lucky colors. He listened for the sound of Dick and Tim and Barbara, the whole Batclan really. Clark was here somewhere, too. He'd brought Connor.   
  
There were others up on the Watchtower keeping eyes and ears out for trouble. For now, this was a time to relax and have fun and remind themselves what they were all risking their lives to protect.   
  
Or, if you asked Bruce, they were training.   
  
Wally chuckled to himself.   
  
Wally peered around a corner. He could hear laughter in the distance, and a girlish squeal, which was probably Tim in all honesty. Otherwise, there was no one in immediate sight. Wally had the all clear.   
  
He crept across the grass, tennis shoes crunching noisily. He hoped the sound of the others laughing and playing concealed all the noise he was making. Wally was not built for stealth. He was built for speed. But they weren't supposed to use any of their superpowers here.   
  
That was part of the training exercise, according to Bruce. No superpowers allowed so that if any of them were ever in a situation where they didn't have them, they wouldn't be powerless. They would have the skills to defend themselves. Bruce was all about future planning.   
  
Wally crept up behind a massive statue of a winged cherub. It was not Bruce's style at all. Probably belonged to his great-great-grandfather or something. The Wayne's were old money.   
  
He peered around it. All clear.   
  
Wally made a dash for a massive rhododendron. The bright red blooms might help to hide him. He hoped. Water jostled in his balloon.   
  
He crouched and waiting. No shouting. No splashing. He was still in the clear. Grinning, Wally crept forward again, inching through the hedge maze. Why Bruce had a hedge maze, Wally didn't know. But it was all kinds of fun.   
  
Wally ducked around another corner, keeping low to the ground. He heard another shriek and shout in the distance, followed by a splash. He was getting closer. Maybe he could sneak up on someone and get his hits in while the getting was good.   
  
He took the next right-hand turn and froze. There, just up ahead, he could see the edge of the heel of a shoe. Someone was crouched down in the path, facing away from Wally, perhaps peering into the next corner. He had no idea who it was.   
  
The shoe shifted. Wally 'eeped' and ducked back behind his wall, peering around the corner. His eyes widened and his heart skipped a beat.   
  
It was Bruce! Score!  
  
Wally backtracked and crept up the path that paralleled the one Bruce was using. Through the gaps in the leaves, he could see Bruce just ahead of him, creeping forward with ninja stealth. Bruce didn't carry any ammo though. Probably didn't think he needed it.   
  
There was a break in the hedge ahead of him. If all went well and Bruce didn't decide to take a right, Wally might actually get the drop on him. Exciting!  
  
He steadied his breathing, focused on stealthy thoughts, and crept carefully forward. Luck stayed with him all the way until the end when he reached the break and Bruce had turned to the left. His back was to Wally, dark t-shirt stretched enticingly across broad shoulders.   
  
Wally hefted his ammo in each hand and crouch-stepped forward. Closer. Closer. No twigs or leaves on the ground to give him away. Good. Doing great, Wally. Just a little further...  
  
Now!  
  
Wally launched himself forward with a fierce jungle cry. Bruce whirled just in time for Wally to tackle him, water balloons exploding between them in a splash. Wally was laughing as they both went down, limbs tangled, Bruce cursing under his breath.   
  
“Got ya!” Wally said before he felt himself go flying. He hit the ground on his back, world spinning, sky very blue above him.   
  
No. That was Bruce's eyes as he looked upside down into Wally's face, hands pinning Wally's wrists to the damp, grassy ground.   
  
“I heard you coming,” Bruce claimed. His voice was tinted with amusement though and if Wally looked closely, he could see Bruce smiling.   
  
Wally rolled his eyes. “No, you didn't. You just don't want to admit that I snuck up on you.”   
  
“You did not.”   
  
“Did so.” Wally grinned. His tongue swept over his lips. “Well, you caught me. What are you going to do with me?”   
  
Bruce chuckled and leaned closer. Their noses brushed. “I am uncertain. I suspect you have a few suggestions?”   
  
Boy, did he ever!  
  
Wally listened intently. There didn't seem to be anyone nearby. No one to point and make embarrassing commentary. Perfect.   
  
He tilted his head up. “Kiss me,” he said.   
  
“I saw that coming, too,” Bruce said dryly, but he obliged. The tip of his nose stroked down Wally's before he tilted a bit further forward and pressed their lips together.   
  
Upside down kisses were awkward, but a slight shift for both of them, and mmm. That was perfect. Wally shivered as Bruce's tongue slid over his, warm and wet and tasting like spearmint. Whoa. Was Bruce actually chewing gum?  
  
Wally nipped at Bruce's lips and wriggled on the ground. “Do we have to keep playing?” he asked as his jeans started to get a little tight. “We can sneak into the manor. No one has to know.”   
  
Bruce outright laughed. “You want Dick to come looking for you?”  
  
Because he would. He so would.   
  
Wally groaned. “No,” he said and his lips pushed together in a moue of disappointment. “But I'm going to say that you owe me.”   
  
Bruce kissed him again. “Later,” he promised, and let Wally go. He stood up, brushing dirt from the knees of his denim.   
  
It was better than nothing, Wally supposed. He let Bruce haul him to his feet, brushing grass and leaves from his own clothes.   
  
Besides, they still had a game to win.

****

**Author's Note:**

> Gonna go ahead and mark this as complete, but if I get any new ideas, I'll toss them up here. Thanks for reading!


End file.
